Just Us Chickens

Well....okay...

2005-10-25T08:35:00.000-07:00

The new place is up, but Sadie and Phin are still working on getting me properly dressed.

Not a natural beauty, please understand it takes longer for some of us to get presentable for company, than others.

Because I have been testing out my blogroll from there, those of you who keep an eye on your sitemeter have already found me.

So, here's the new URL: http://justdotchristina.mu.nu/

See you over there!!

Choices

2005-10-23T12:53:00.000-07:00

To live this life we must each make choices.

These decisions can be made actively or passively, verbally or tacitly, but whether we engage in action or inaction, decisions are ultimately made.

This week someone close to my little family attempted suicide.

She was unsuccessful in her bid, but her actions have a not so insignificant impact on my daughters.

Suicide is a choice.

If someone is intent on ending his or her own life, he or she will eventually do so.

There is nothing I or anyone else can say or do to prevent that from happening.

I know there are twenty-four hour suicide watches. I know there are medications and therapy for depression. However, despite the best of intentions, if someone has no desire to live and seeks the darkness of eternity, that person will finally succeed.

Each of us is fundamentally responsible for himself or herself.

No manner of support, intervention, mollycoddling or anything else will make a damn bit of difference. The person in crisis has to discover, then commit to the value of his or her life.

I know and understand the impairment of depression and how it clouds reason and judgment. I am not unsympathetic or uncompassionate regarding the severity of the condition and its impact on an individual.

While willing to render support, love, and aide to someone in need, I do not believe I or anyone else is responsible for another's suicide.

I choose to use the life events which surround us as teaching tools for my children. I shield them as much as I can from a lot of the harshness of reality, but the older they become, the less I actively engage in withholding certain information from them.

I want my children to be children and enjoy the pleasures of an essentially carefree existence where they are not forced to face the often harsh and grim world in which we live; however, they also need to know and understand that reality is not sugarplum fairies, gumdrop trees or rivers of chocolate.

Wee One is far too young to know or understand anything about suicide or what leads a person down that path.

Sweet One is mature for her almost thirteen years. She had been privy to the bits and pieces of the phone calls and discussions regarding the attempt and she exercised restraint in not making inquiry; however, I knew she knew something was going on.

I am also painfully aware that the age-group with the highest rate of suicide is teenagers.

Thus, it was with great thought and consideration I broached the subject with her.

Her first question: Is suicide hereditary?

Her second question: What could be so bad that someone would want to die?

While we briefly touched on the specifics of this one individual's situation, I shifted the focus from there to suicide in general and teenage suicide specifically. I felt I needed to give her the tools to cope with the pain and adversity she might one day face.

I did my homework and gave her the statistics. She was shocked, of course.

Why teenagers?

We covered the usual suspects: the difficulty in dealing with leaving the world of childhood behind and slowing morphing into adulthood; the struggle to find one's place or niche in the fishbowl world of school and other groups; the not so subtle effects of hormones; experimentation with drugs and alcohol; the heartbreak of rejection and first love. We covered a wide variety of topics.

Fortunately, she is accustomed to my matter-of-fact and no-nonsense approach to relaying information, as well as my often questionable humor.

She knows my goal is not to be her absolute bestest friend in the whole wide world, but to be the best mother I can possibly be.

I've outlined more than once for her what my role as mother entails: to provide for her, protect her, teach her, and help mold and guide her into being the very best human she can be.

I try to do all those things with unconditional love, the absolute best and most accurate facts I can provide, and open arms to welcome her home whether she has screwed up or not. Then, there is the never-ending supply of freshly baked cookies and cakes to cheer her up when her day is something less than she wanted it to be.

With all we discussed, she kept coming back to one element running through all the possible causes for one to consider suicide: pain.

She could not fathom a pain so intense and powerful that it would make someone want to die and actively seek death.

I made a choice at that point to share something with my daughter I had hoped I would never have to because I did not want her to ever think less of me. I shared something with her because I felt and believed one day the lesson I learned might actually help her when she is cold, alone, and consumed by some unknown pain of her own, even though I pray for her, I pray she never has to experience any of that first hand.

I told her of a young woman who was newly married and at twenty-four was practicing law with one of the most influential law firms in the country. I described an accomplished young woman who was haunted with grave insecurities of her ability to meet the expectations of everyone around, as well as the too high expectations of her own. The young woman was plagued by guilt and self-doubt which filled her heart with a seemingly ceaseless pain that only appeared to grow with each passing day.

Without going into specific details, I told her the young woman woke up one day and when her husband asked if she was going to work, she replied: "I would rather put a gun to my head than get up and go to work."

Fortunately for the young woman, the husband took her seriously and immediately found someone in whom she trusted to share her load. Through many, many tears the young woman discovered things were not as bleak or dire as she had led herself to believe. With help, she was able to put things into better perspective and she learned that trusting her pain with others made it easier for her to not only carry the burden, but dispose of it.

A week after she uttered the fateful words: "I would rather put a gun to my head ..." the woman learned she was expecting her first child.

The child was Sweet One.

Two Things

2005-10-22T06:42:00.000-07:00

First, I liked this quote:

When I am abroad, I always make it a rule never to criticize or attack the government of my own country. I make up for lost time when I come home. ~ Sir Winston Churchill

Second, the new site should be up and running before much longer. I appreciate your patience.

In the meantime, I'm having great fun over here.

Blogger Schizophrenia

2005-10-13T17:54:00.000-07:00

Okay, those who know me, know I can be a bit flighty on occasion, despite my very dark and long hair.

What can I say?

I guess I'm easily bored.

That's not really true, but it is somewhat difficult to explain what has prompted all this blog-hopping.

One of the great things about blogging is that each of us can be whoever we please, whenever we please, wherever on the net we please.

I started off feisty and rather gung-ho, but ended up grinding myself down as a result. Feisty is certainly a facet to my personality, but it makes up less than ten percent.

Alex Sinclair is a pseudonym I have had and used since high school. There have been volumes of poetry and prose that no one will probably ever read written under the nom de plume of Alex Sinclair; however, Alex is yet another facet of me.

Feisty Chrissy has taken up residence with my lovely sistah Sadie, a home for which I am most grateful. With her blessing, I shall continue popping in and up over there again and again, as the mood, inspiration, and whimsy strike. With my girl covering my backside, I hope to gain the confidence to unleash the political and constitutional animal over there.

Feisty Repartee shall remain as it is with archives intact; however, I will not be returning there.

This Coop has been a great place to hang out as I worked through some things, mostly personal.

Everything in this life is a journey. Each step we take, each move we make takes us down one path or another.

There's one last move in me. Pixy Misa have given me an opportunity to return to munuviana and is setting up my new URL.

This time there will just be me.

The new place will be called Just *dot* Christina because that's all I am. Just me.

When it's up and running, I'll give a shout out and I sincerely hope you will follow me to one more place.

In the meantime, I'll be here.

Well CRAP!

2005-10-13T10:54:00.000-07:00

I didn't intend to change the blog template and lose my friggin' links, but it looks like that is what I have done.

Dammit.

Shit.

Crap.

I just thought I was having a pretty good day.

My mistake.

UPDATE:

Bloody F*cking Hell.

I managed to lose Haloscan, too!

UPDATE II:

Have I mentioned, I hate this farookin' template?!

Gremlins

2005-10-13T07:16:00.000-07:00

Forgive me, friends, but my age must surely be showing. While I have never had much of a rear, it has certainly been dragging lately.

Last night I got home late from the office and was so wiped out, I was the first one to bed. Seriously, I abandoned Wee One to Sweet One's watchful eyes and hit the sack early.

This morning was the first day in the last ten I did not awake with some kind of a headache. Woohooo!

When Wee One popped out of bed this morning she greeted me with a lazy smile and brown colored stains all down the front of her pink princess nightgown.

Shocked, I inquired what was all that and pointed down the front of her frock.

"Oh, that," she responded, "that's chocolate ice cream from last night. I spilled some."

There was no point in asking whose idea the ice cream was or who provided it to her.

Apparently, there was an ice cream party after I went to bed.

Gremlins, I'm sure.

Where there's one...

2005-10-11T16:42:00.000-07:00

...there are bound to be others.

I don't care if it's a baby rattler, it's still a rattler.

Yes, it's dead.

Yes, that's my patio.

ish!

Birthdays Abound!

2005-10-11T07:52:00.000-07:00

Tell me people don't get frisky in the cold month of January.

Tomorrow, October 12th is best friend Susan's birthday. She is the lovely and stalwart cohort who accompanies me to blogmeets and lets me lean on her with grace and dignity when the world gets to be too hard for me to stand alone.

Friday, October 14th is Eric, the Straight White Intrepid and Conqueror of the Deck's day in the sun. Cheers, man!

Saturday, October 15th marks the anniversary of the Divine Miss Silk's Debut! And, no, the world has never been quite the same.

Sunday, October 16th is the 19th birthday of our beloved and surprisingly (for such a teenager)well-developed (and I can't believe your Mom let you get tattoos and wear your hair like that) Zonker. It's time, man, it's time. Manhood awaits. This is your year!

Monday, October 19th my dear Mother has a birthday; however, because my father could not remember her actual birthday when he filled out her naturalization papers (he wrote down July 20, the birthday of his first wife!) and her culture celebrates Chinese New Year as a birthday for all, she actually has three birthdays a year. I'm telling ya, she looks pretty damn good for a gal going on 186.

Marking another trip around the sun on Monday, October 24th is the delightfully sincere and introspective Mr. Random Fate. Jack was going to celebrate the milestone of his 40th birthday last year in Scotland, but things did not work out that way. Perhaps, this year, he'll enjoy a Scotch in the Highlands and reflect on all that is good in his world. I hope so.

Happy Birthday!

Happy Birthday, my friends.

I love each of you!

I am also blessed to know you.

Thank you for your friendship.

UPDATE: Yet another man with whom I am enamored. Darlin' Denny has a birthday on Tuesday, October 25th! He intends to spend his special day sampling wines from around the world!! Sekreet note to Denny: The Texas Hill Country is known for it's wines, too. Hint, hint.

LOLLYGAGGIN' UPDATE: The dynamic and anything but subdued Pammy has a birthday on Friday, October, 21st!

Good Lord, people! How many October babies of you are there out there?!

WIZARDLY UPDATE: Or would that be Warlock?! The wonderfully wacky and loveable Wizard informs me he will be 41 on October 31st!!

PARKWAY UPDATE: Holy Cannoli is right, Batman!! The beloved Godfaddah has a birthday on Sunday, October 16th, too! Do you suppose he and Zonker were separated at birth? They are both from New Jersey!

Oh, NO!!

2005-10-10T07:11:00.000-07:00

Fire destroys 'Wallace and Gromit' warehouse.

A spokesman for Aardman said the building housed props and sets from the company's history, including its first three 'Wallace and Gromit' films.

As mentioned over the weekend, we watched the new movie: Wallace & Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit.

It was good, but I have to admit the ten minute short preceeding the feature film: 'A Christmas Caper' was just excellent. The short starred the penguins from Madgascar.

Seriously, it was hysterically funny.

"Shiitake mushrooms!"

Indeed!

In the mood...

2005-10-09T18:44:00.000-07:00

Decadent, indulgent, and hedonistic aptly describe my present mood.

What to do?

What is a girl to do?

As a woman, I have the same wants, needs, and desires as any other. There are times when my body screams for satisfaction.

I have visions in my head of sharing hot sweet pleasure with another.

Oh, yes.

What I have in mind involves partaking in something very special, indeed.

Alas, while unilaterally satisfying on occasion, some things are just infinitely better when experienced together. Thus, I hope to corrupt another with a hidden desire and one of my secret passions.

Dare I bare all and reveal just one of the lovely little things which makes my heart definitely beat with the urgency of need and, moreover, desire?

A little encouragement may be necessary because even I am a little shy about some things.

What's that you say?

Please?

Please what, dahling?

Oh, yes, I love it when you ask nicely.

Okay, here goes, I just returned from the grocery store with Heath Toffee Bits and semi-sweet chocolate chips. I have the best cookies you have ever, ever slipped into your mouth baking in the oven. In a few more minutes, the soft gooey pleasure will be mine; however, I am so willing to share.

This guilty pleasure is definitely better when paired with cold milk.

So, I have the cookies, who has the milk?

Chocolate Chip/Toffee Cookies

1 cup butter
1 cup sugar
1/2 cup brown sugar
2 eggs
1 teaspoon Amaretto
2-1/4 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon salt
12 oz. semi-sweet chocolate chips
1 cup Heath Toffee Bits

Cream together butter, sugar and Amaretto until light and fluffy. Beat in eggs. Sift together flour, soda, and salt. Gradually add to creamed mixture. Mix well. Fold in chocolate chips and toffee bits.

Drop by teaspoon onto greased cookie sheet.

Bake at 375 degrees F. for 10 minutes or until light brown. Makes a soft cookie.

Poor Baby!

2005-10-08T19:16:00.000-07:00

Last night it was soap, tonight...

Wee One decided to take her toothbrush and toothpaste into my bathroom tonight. She prepared for bed, watched television with me for a little while, then decided to have some juice. I told her to brush her teeth again.

She came back a few minutes ago sputtering and spitting.

I left the Icy Hot cream on the counter and she had mistaken it for toothpaste.

The Black Sheep

2005-10-08T13:04:00.000-07:00

There is no doubt my mother and my sister love me. I know that and do not doubt it; however, they have always shared a special bond and relate to one another on levels that are simply alien to me.

When I was younger I was jealous of their relationship, but years ago I learned to accept they are more like one another than I am like either of them. Age and maturity has taught me that I should be grateful they are able to have one another because they can each be there for the other and instinctively know what the other needs and how to provide it.

My role in what remains of this family unit is to take care of business. Despite the very troubled and dysfunctional relationship I had with my father, I inherited certain traits from him.

I learned at an early age that I have a very clear vision of what needs to be done in most situations and how to execute tasks efficiently. In crisis that makes me the go-to person, but the other ninety-nine percent of the time when things are rocking along copacetically, I just piss people off with my no-nonsense style of assertiveness and few have much use for me.

As I mentioned in the previous post, I awoke very early this morning with a screaming migraine and after I was finally able to keep the meds down, I returned to bed to sleep off the pain.

When I next emerged from my bedroom, my sister had arrived from Houston and Mom decided she would go with Beth and return next week. I think my sister was here for three-quarters of an hour before we waved them off.

While the last to know, it was not a surprise.

Sweet One has a birthday party to attend this evening and Wee One has informed me if I get cleaned up I can take her to the movies tonight. The only rated G show at our local multiplex is Wallace & Gromit. I showed her the trailer and with delight twinkling in her eyes, she informed me it was, indeed, acceptable. God love that child.

The husband, as he has stated, is on the road again.

There it is, just me and my Wee One. And, yes, I'm counting my blessings.

Just Shoot Me

2005-10-08T05:26:00.000-07:00

Awoke around 2:30 this morning with a screaming headache. Instead of getting up right then and taking some Imitrex for it, I convinced myself I could just sleep it off.

Right. A migraine wakes me up and I actually think I can sleep it off. Like that has ever happened.

I'm damned for the day.

Back to bed.

Enjoy your weekend.

Soap and a Switch

2005-10-07T17:44:00.000-07:00

Wee One as she pounded on the bathroom door:

"Open the damn door!"

I'll leave to your imagination just how well that went over.

Ummmmm...

2005-10-07T09:26:00.000-07:00

It's wonderfully chilly, wet, and rainy out today, a stark contrast to the unremitting sun and heat of the last six months.

I spent a few minutes this morning releasing a few extra rocks back to the "wilds" of the building's florascapes.

My good deed done, now, I am savoring a deliciously hot cup of Earl Grey in lieu of my standard Diet Coke.

I am feeling rather refined, but have no fear, I am quite sure it will be fleeting.

Never a moment to myself

2005-10-07T05:53:00.000-07:00

It would appear I do not sit still for very long because just about every time I take a bathroom break the cat follows me and immediately jumps on my lap to be petted and scratched.

Talk about multi-tasking...

Sheesh.

An Irish Blessing

2005-10-06T10:59:00.000-07:00

This came to my attention today and I wish it for all of us:

May the hand of a friend always be near you.

Put a Rock in it

2005-10-06T07:46:00.000-07:00

Absent-mindedness, fatigue, or "just don't give a damn," the past few months I have been less than enthused about a great many things and my attention to detail has pretty much faded.

In my profession I deal with big files. I mean big dog files which stand at least a foot or two tall on their own before I even touch them.

Once upon a time I was most diligent and way too organized in the manner I handled and approached these files. Whether I have now become more comfortable with what I do or too doggone tired to care, I have streamlined the workflow. Enough said.

At one point I had nice desk accessories: silver letter opener, leaded glass paper weight from the United States Supreme Court, another attractive Murano glass paper weight, etc. I often used these items to hold open a section of these monster files or keep my page as I flipped through it. Not surprisingly, they began to disappear.

At first, I attempted to track them down through the office because it was apparent they were not being stolen, but were effectively being eaten by these gargantuan files.

There is a switch inside my head that says when I am done, I am done. There is no going back. When I finish with a case file, I am done. I do not want to look at it again. I stink at proof-reading and simply hate to do it.

Translation: I do not proof-read.

That switch also applies to perusing a file for extraneous items such as desk accessories.

Fortunately, I have learned not to use my mobile phone, sunglasses, small framed pictures or keys as bookmarks; however, everything else is pretty much fair game.

Seriously, these files are so huge that once closed and sitting atop a desk, it is not readily apparent such things are contained within them.

There are eighty-five other people in my office and it became widely known some time ago if something unusual was in a file, it was to be returned to me; however, after a certain point the really nice items simply disappeared. I admit, it was my own fault and there are no hard feelings about that.

These days, I have discovered the smooth river rocks which adorn the plant-scapes in our building make excellent paperweights. I have quite a collection, in fact.

This morning one of the judges with whom I work closely and primarily presented me with a large box tied with a bow. This box was one of those in which reams of paper are routinely delivered. As he presented the box to me he mentioned something about a "record."

When I opened the box, I discovered it was filled with two dozen or more smooth and round river rocks. Rocks he had collected from the files on which I have worked.

The record?

Well, the last dog case I gave him had three rocks in it.

Tormenting the Innocent

2005-10-05T07:23:00.000-07:00

Last week I needed to pick up Sweet One after school rather than have her ride the bus home. She attends a new school this year and instead of 200 sixth graders, there are over 800 seventh grade students alone.

I called the school and requested she be informed of this change in regular plans. The practice is for the office to deliver a note to the student's teacher which is then passed on to the student.

Ten minutes prior to the end of the school day I arrived and waited in the parents' pick up line. Half an hour later, there was no Sweet One. I parked and went inside. The office confirmed a note was sent to the classroom, but Sweet One could not be found. Rather than panic, I returned home to await the bus.

Another half an hour later, the bus with my elder child finally arrived. When she exited, she was upset and very apologetic. She said while she was waiting for the bus, her teacher approached and told her: "I guess I should have given this to you sooner."

With the bus pulling up she made a judgment call: run out to the front of the school to see if I were still there or take the bus and not risk being left stranded at school. She made a damn good call. While irritated at the teacher, I was proud of her.

Because she is in band and participates in sports and other extra-curricular activities, I decided to add her to my mobile calling plan for the cost of a new phone and another $10 a month. To my way of thinking that is an inexpensive price for what remains of my peace of mind.

She now has a phone and is absolutely and unequivocally ecstatic, even though she understands that is strictly for emergencies and for me to keep tabs on her. She knows it is not a toy for her to text and gossip with her little friends.

It is no secret I love and adore both my daughters; however, I am not blind to their natures and habits.

Sweet one is sweet natured. Wee One is a miscreant; however, delightful.

While the little one is much like me in that she awakes early and easily with a smile on her face, Sweet one is definitely NOT a morning person. Her wont is to laze in bed until noon and it is a constant struggle to get her up in the morning, even though she genuinely loves school and never complains about going.

As with most people, mornings are hectic. There are two dogs to attend to and I have to get myself and two others up and prepared to greet the day. With the dueling objectives of keeping mornings sane and completing the routine in an efficient manner, I struggle with losing my temper when Sweet One requires repeated admonitions to GET UP!

Her room is upstairs and I have long entertained the notion of tying a rope to her toe and yanking. At my insistence, her alarm clock is positioned across the room, but she has the ability to sleep through noise, as well as sleep walk to it, shut it off, and stumble back to bed without losing a Z.

When a plan comes together, no matter how infantile, it is great cause for celebration

This morning sweet revenge was all mine.

Two minutes before her alarm was to go off, I stood at the bottom of the stairs and called Sweet One on her mobile phone.

Within seconds she was up and scrambling to find the damn little thing. As soon as she answered, I hung up.

There was a moment or two of complete silence before she wailed: "MMMOOOOOOMMMM!!"

{{Insert evil laughter}}

Shades of Blue

2005-10-04T11:19:00.000-07:00

Have you wondered how it is that people are ever really able to communicate with or relate to one another on any level with true understanding?

We have language, concepts, and ideas; however, something as simple as the color blue means something different to each of us. One might think sky blue, another sea blue, yet another cobalt, while all the while, I am thinking periwinkle blue.

In this context, blue is less a color than a notion with a range from the palest of baby blue to the deepest midnight blue.

To make myself clearly understood, I could hold up a color chip of the specific shade of blue to which I was referring, but any attempt to name or describe the color would then again introduce ambiguity because each of us would perceive it differently.

This leads me to believe our ability to communicate with one another is a very fragile process, indeed.

Short of reading minds, how is it that we really know what is going on with those around us, particularly of those we actually care?

Some are more willing to share the thoughts which circle the inner confines of the mind, but that act of sharing is still limited by language and even in the absence of thoughtful intent, words carry differing emotional charges and values and we each perceive and receive those words differently.

Then, there are those with inscrutable dispositions who hold tightly onto not only their feelings, but knowledge, information, and insight. They are motivated not by avarice or ill will, but through the mistaken belief others should already know.

I, for one, am at a complete loss. I may think I know and, perhaps, even understand some things about others, particularly those for whom I actually give a damn, but in the end, I do not believe I actually know anything about anyone.

So screams the heart and mind of one who desperately wishes to connect with another in some meaningful way when those tenuous strands of communication are stretched far too thin to transmit anything other than despair.

What's the point?

What the hell.

What the bloody hell.

Hmmmm

2005-10-03T19:27:00.000-07:00

What do you think?

Is it me?

H/T: Tincanman

One to Rival

2005-10-03T06:54:00.000-07:00

Back in March I wrote about my mother's trials with the English language:

It has been reported many times that my Asian mother does not speak English that well.

Today, she called from her car to ask if the girls wanted anything from Sonic on her way home from shopping.

Wee One wanted a grape slush.

When my mother arrived, she came in and handed the baby the grape slush, then turned to me and asked: "WHAT is that called?"

Confused, I answered slowly: "A grape slush."

She tried to repeat the word "slush."

I laughed.

She said that crazy woman at Sonic just couldn't hear.

What I heard her say was: "Grape sluts..."

Well, I think she may have managed to top that one.

When we were in the grocery store the other day my mother wanted grapes, but not just any grapes would do.

While I was off with the unenviable task of choosing the freshest garlic and onions, I saw my mother approach one of the grocery clerks and engage in conversation.

By the time I returned to my mother, she had rendered the poor clerk confused and flustered and Sweet One's face was beet-red with one of her hands covering her mouth.

Sensing a translation problem, I gently inquired if all were well.

The lady clerk just looked at me and my mother was obviously irritated. She turned to me in exasperation and said: "All I asked for were shitless grapes."

SEEDLESS, that would be SEEDLESS grapes...

Sound Bites

2005-10-02T06:57:00.000-07:00

Yesterday we did find a Vietnamese grocer in San Antonio!

After a long day of shopping for just about everything under the sun, the final stop before heading home was Albertson's where there was a friendly, but definitely goober bag boy who appeared to be twenty-five or so.

Unable to take his eyes off my twelve-year-old, he pushed a cart into a parked car when we walked into the store and managed to be the one to bag our groceries and escort us to my car when we were done.

As she was getting into the car, he told her: "Excuse me, I just want you to know that you are beautiful."

While I saw him speak to her, I had not heard what he said.

Wee One certainly did because before I could start the car she announced: "Sissy has a boyfriend..." then spilled the beans.

Oh, God. Let's not go there just yet, shall we?

My mother and Wee One, of course, were endlessly amused.

Sweet One and I were horrified.

Her father expressed the need to clean his guns.

My Mom

2005-10-01T16:00:00.000-07:00

Outed

2005-10-01T08:24:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I felt comfortable enough to go to the office and leave mom home with Wee One.

Now, those two are a dangerous combination.

Sometime during the day, Wee One got on my laptop and showed my mother how to use it. Remember, she will be five in December. She even knows how to access the internet. (Before anyone cringes, I have it set up where she can only access sites I have pre-approved.)

Apparently, she revealed I had a website, but confessed she did not know how to get to it.

When I got home, mom asked me about it and I showed it to her. I told her I had been writing stories about her and she insisted I read them to her. I also shared the comments.

She was absolutely delighted.

Shortly after I stumbled out of bed this morning, I found my mother on my laptop trying to get back to this place. She said she wanted to read the stories again, particularly the comments.

I showed her what bookmarks were, how to navigate, and access the comments. She kept asking if there were other stories out there. I then showed her the old site and pulled up a few more of the stories about her.

She read, laughed, and read some more.

After my shower she handed me a piece of paper with hastily scribbled notes all over it. She said: "Here, you have to write these stories now."

Then she added: "I wish I could write and spell better, I would like to write some stories of my own and see what your friends would say."

Bless her.

We are now gearing up to head to San Antonio is search of Asian grocers. I advised that Asians make up less than four percent of the demographic population, but she asserted: "I know there are more slang-eyes like me around here."

Disappointment

2005-09-30T13:46:00.000-07:00

Defined: sadness or displeasure felt when one's hopes are not fulfilled; a person or thing that causes such a feeling.

This post is for me. I'm whining.

There is a person who holds not an insignificant role in my life.

While he has many favorable attributes and can be both gentle and kind, his is typically the path of least resistance.

I have often thought and even spoken outloud that when the going gets tough, I am left to stand and face all manner of adversity and demon alone.

For better or worse, I am an undying optimist and I never truly believe things are or will be as dire as they are or could possibly be.

This week I was faced with a task which required both immediate action and a great deal of moxie.

This week I really did not know if I had it in me to complete the task.

This week I was scared and faced something I should not have had to confront alone.

This week someone let me down.

Again.

And, so breaks another piece of this old heart of mine.

Hard to Believe

2005-09-30T04:08:00.000-07:00

What's that old saying?

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Well, 365 days ago my life underwent something of a change.

A year ago today I began my adventure in the world of web logging, up close and personal.

Between here and that other place, this post is number 745.

According to the site meter over there, there have been just over 75,500 hits in that year.

UNBELIEVABLE.

While my personal life is the same chaotic rollercoaster it has been for longer than I care to really contemplate, I have definitely changed.

I am not the same person I was when this journey began.

I have met so many good people I am pleased to call friend.

Through death or other circumstances I have said goodbye to some, but welcomed others into my life and my heart.

I am much richer for all these experiences.

I know not what tomorrow will bring, but I look forward to meeting the challenge with each of you.

Language

2005-09-29T17:11:00.000-07:00

I come from a line of language butchers.

Because my mother is half-Chinese and half-Vietnamese, English is not her first language. Despite becoming a naturalized citizen in 1965, she still speaks English with a heavy accent and all manner of mental gymnastics is required to decipher her exact meanings; however, there are the rare occasions when she manages to convey the appropriate message in rather blunt fashion.

When I first began bringing the boyfriend home to meet the parents, my mother was delighted with him because he enjoyed food, more particularly her cooking. Unfortunately, my mother has never been very good with names and has always managed to substitute the names of her children for those of the various pets lurking about the house and land.

Well, apparently boyfriend was not immune from this practice. During a meal one evening, as soon as she noted his plate was less than half full, she jumped up to offer him yet another helping. She looked at him and instead of saying his name, she asked: "Crap, want more?"

Scrap or Scrapper was the name of one of the dogs. The letter "s" at the beginning of a word was yet something else she could not accurately pronounce.

On another occasion, I was in a bit of a grumpy mood which is often the case when my blood sugar drops (that's my story and I'm sticking to it!). My mother pulled the boyfriend to one side and whispered rather loudly in his ear: "When she is in a bad mood, just slip her a little Twinkie."

Shocked, he looked at her incredulously and asked: "What did you say?"

Nonchalantly, she walked over to the pantry, opened it up, grabbed a box of Twinkies, and deposited it in front of him before asserting: "Give her one of these. It will make her feel better."

He very obviously thought she was referring to something else.

Not long ago, the Baptist preacher's wife and daughter were at my parents' home having coffee with my mother. I just happened to be there that afternoon and was working on some kind of paper work and I did not really engage in conversation with them.

The bits and pieces I was able to hear of their chatter revealed the daughter had just broken off her engagement with a young man in the community. My mother was very surprised to hear the news and asked by way of confirmation: "What, no ding-a-ling?"

Shock rippled through both the preacher's wife and daughter. No one knew quite what to say.

It took even me a moment before I was able to translate what she meant to say:

"What, no wedding bells?"

Driving Miss Saigon

2005-09-28T12:03:00.000-07:00

There is an old stereotype which depicts Asians as poor drivers.

As far as my mother is concerned, that stereotype is spot on.

She was a latecomer to the ranks of road warrior and was in her mid-to-late thirties when she first obtained her license. She has never really enjoyed the whole of the driving experience and much prefers for others to drive. She claims she does not see well, despite frequent eye examinations and corrective lenses.

I say "claims" because she is ever-vigilant and very quick to alert me to any and all manner of potential hazard on the road. She is altruistic in her sharing of information because she squeals and jumps to let me know of not only things which might possibly threaten the vehicle in which we ride, but those of every other human on the road.

My mother lends new meaning to the phrase: "She is a trip."

This morning she had an appointment with my doctor. I was concerned about dehydration, heat exhaustion, and possible stroke. She was slurring a bit when I picked her up night before last. With rest, food, and plenty of fluids, it improved yesterday, however; not knowing how long she will be with us I not only wanted her checked out, but wanted her to establish a relationship with a physician in the area, just in case.

In addition to her longstanding osteoarthritis, bilateral carpal tunnel, tendonitis, and low back pain, she is suffering the ill effects of heat exhaustion and dehydration. She is very weak and weighs less than 100 pounds. She stands five feet, one inch tall. Bless her. She is completely exhausted.

Doc gave her a couple of scripts and she wanted to fill them at Wal-Mart (which occupies at least three rings of Hell) so when she returns home, it will be easier to transfer the prescriptions. I wanted to drop her off at home, then fill the prescriptions myself. She was having none of that. She insisted jokingly that with her recent weight loss, it would be easier for me to carry her around. Great.

Instead of going straight to Wal-Mart from Doc's, I decided to take her and Wee One to lunch to give her a chance to rest before we faced the masses. I was also hoping after she sat down for a few minutes she would realize how tired she was and want to go home.

No such luck.

No matter how tired she was, she still insisted she wanted to go and said she would use one of those convenience scooters at Wally World to shop. I relented.

Fortunately, she was a bit restored after the meal and I was able to use the shopping excursion over her head to "encourage" her to eat and drink more.

Because she was the one who suggested the scooter, I assumed my mother knew how to operate the damn thing. Further, I thought they were pretty much idiot proof.

Good grief!

With my child positioned between her and the steering wheel, she backed into a row of shopping carts, then put it in forward and tried to mow down some poor soul with a walker.

Damn good thing they are equipped with a regulator and do not exceed more 1.5 mph or she really would have been hell on wheels.

After fifteen minutes of watching her attempts to drive and shop my nerves could take it no longer. I told her I would be at the other end of the store and when she was finished with her shopping, prescription filling, and whatever, call me on the mobile phone and I would collect her at the front door.

Laughter is a great healer and a few minutes later she was obviously feeling much better because I saw her with Wee One standing between her legs laughing and flying up and down the aisles on that thing.

I can see it now, she's going to have Santa bring her one (my mother, not Wee One) for Christmas. It will be painted red with flames running down the sides. Yikes!

True to form, when they had exhausted all potential targets or running people down in the aisles lost it appeal, she called and I met her with my shopping cart of purchases and we headed to the parking lot.

It was 103 degrees outside. As we neared my car, mom took the keys from me and said she would start the car and get the air conditioner going. Fine.

Apparently, my engine is much quieter than hers. I heard her then strip my damn starter. Twice.

Sigh.

I am glad she is beginning to feel better. Doc said it would take a couple of weeks before her strength will begin to return.

THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU!

2005-09-27T09:14:00.000-07:00

Mom and I are home.

Susan's mom decided to wait it out for a few more days. She emphatically stated she was not ready to leave yet. Poor Susan. She's been worried sick; however, sometimes we just can't make these parents do what we think they need to do.

The word disaster is so inadequate to describe what so many are experiencing first hand.

When my brain is functioning better, perhaps, I will attempt to describe some of the things I saw.

So many thanks are in order. I felt each of your thoughts and well wishes and when I was scared, I knew you guys were pulling for us.

I simply cannot put in words how very much I appreciate each of you.

Thank you.

Update

2005-09-26T14:42:00.000-07:00

Posted by Sadie

Hello everyone! I just wanted to pass on the word that our fearless heroine has set off on her foreshadowed journey. Keep her in your thoughts, please, and I will keep you appraised of any news that I receive.

UPDATE: 8:45 PM - Learned that she made it to her mother's home just fine, and most likely has enough gasoline to make it to a filling station. Yay!

Another UPDATE: 11:10 PM - Approaching a filling station, close enough to home, so that she will make it home on that tank. Her family expects here home around 4AM or so.

FINAL update...sometime early/late...she is safe and sound. (Methinks that I'm sounding like an auctioneer?)

Gearing Up

2005-09-25T13:02:00.000-07:00

While both are moms are safe and sound, Susan and I have confirmed with the local electric company they will be out of power for two to three weeks.

Cameron and Lake Charles have been laid to waste.

I'm told by people there that DeRidder looks like a war zone.

My mom is freaking out a bit. While she has weathered many storms, none have come this close or caused this much damage. Then, there's that thing about being alone without my father (he died in December) standing over her to tell her what to do.

Susan's sister also lives in DeRidder and her house took a tree through the roof. Her mom took a tree to a shed.

Susan and I have been networking trying to figure out the next step. We need to get both of our moms out of the area until the power comes back on. There's still major power outages and gas shortages from Houston to Lafayette with roads also being closed through Houston, Beaumont, and Lake Charles.

If Susan's uncle from Tyler, a police officer, is not able to get enough gas to them in the next day or so, I will put together a truck with enough extra gas cans to take to the back roads to head that way. Both my mom's vehicles have gas we can syphon once I get there.

If anyone is between Houston and Lake Charles, please speak up and let me know what the gas situation is where you are.

Many thanks.

P.S. I'm also checking into getting a flight out of Alexandria to San Antonio for her.

A Rough Night

2005-09-24T05:44:00.000-07:00

My mother just called.

THANK GOD!

However, Susan cannot reach her mother.

According to mom, it was rough. There were high winds and lots of downed trees. She stayed with the next door neighbors and one of the huge oak trees between their houses came down. It missed both homes.

The next, next door neighbor suffered significant roof damage, part of it was torn off in the wind.

She said there are trees down everywhere, no electricity, no water, but they are safe.

Now, they have to wait for the back end of the storm to pass. The eye is passing just to the east of where she is.

Susan is here with us and we are trying to get through to her mom.

Susan and I appreciate each and every one of your kind and supportive thoughts and prayers.

God bless.

UPDATE: Saturday, 9:00 a.m. Susan's Mom has called! She is okay. There is much damage where she is, too. The phone lines are such they can call out, but we can't call in. That's okay, as long as we know they are safe.

Too Close to Home

2005-09-23T08:37:00.000-07:00

Calcasieu and Cameron Parishes are under mandatory evacuation orders.

Beauregard Parish is where I spent the majority of my childhood. It is just north of Calcasieu Parish and borders Texas on the west.

Lake Charles is in Calcasieu Parish and a mere 50 miles from my mother and best friend Susan's mother who live in DeRidder, Beauregard Parish, Louisiana. Both Susan and I lost our fathers last fall and winter. Our mothers are recent widows.

According to the hometown rag, DeRidder is preparing to accept evacuees from Calcasieu and Cameron.

The Lake Charles American Press, has set up an emergency news blog on blogspot.

(Susan, the reporters are physically in DeRidder and Folk Polk, go over there, it's the most up-to-date on present conditions I have found. Phone lines have been in and out since Katrina.)

I'm hoping our mothers are out of harm's way if DeRidder is taking evacuees.

Say a prayer, my friends, I'm worried sick.

UPDATE: Beauregard is going to be hit hard!

HOLY CRAP!

2005-09-21T20:38:00.000-07:00

While not in the land fall cross-hairs, it would appear if Rita hits between Galveston and Port Lavaca and continues a north-northwest line San Antonio (where I work) and New Braunfels (where I live) are in for quite a ride.

If the projections are correct, we look to receive in excess of 73 mph sustained winds.

Folks, that does not include wind gusts or spin-off tornadoes.

This Louisiana girl knows what THAT means.

My house has gables with extended front and back porches. All those gables and covered areas give the wind something to pickup and rip roofs off.

There are windows across the front and completely across the back of the house with transoms and a huge half moon window in the arch of the cathedral ceiling in the living room.

Fortunately, even if we get a great deal of rainfall, we are high on a hill and in the past eight years we have lived through 500 and 100 year floods with no water anywhere near the house; however, the low lying areas surrounding us were all flooded which had the effect of landlocking us in the subdivision.

Dear friend, damn smart woman, and hurricane pro Boudicca has been a Godsend.

When I finally looked at the projection early this afternoon I thought I might be over-reacting because everyone at the office was rather nonchalant about the hurricane. The over-riding concern was the influx of more evacuees.

A few emails and phone calls with Bou convinced me there is cause for serious concern. With her advice and level-headedness, I have done everything I can possibly do to prepare for the health, safety, and well-being of my family and house guests.

I've been to the bank, Wal-Mart, the grocery store, and the gas station.

One of my neighbors and good friends has a generator and suggested we pool resources.

You bet!

I'll be at the office tomorrow.

Friday I shall be home.

Nothing to do but sit, wait, and watch.

I hope each of you and those you love are safe and sound.

UPDATE: Thursday 9:47 a.m. CST The projection for Rita is now right square through Galveston and Galveston Bay with a line to Houston, instead of west to Port Lavaca.

That's good news for me because it puts us out of the major winds; however, my mother in Louisiana lives just above Lake Charles. There will be lots of wind, tornadoes, and rain. I've asked her to stay with friends.

The mother-in-law's house has Galveston Bay as her picturesque back yard. The house is a mansion built in 1908 with gorgeous foot wide plank floors, high ceilings, and hand tooled woodwork. It's also filled with antiques. I'm not wishing ill, but seriously doubt it will still be standing come Saturday.

Further, I would not be surprised to see both my sister's house and the father-in-law's house to be flooded. Both have seen water at least once from tropical storms.

Evacuee Central

2005-09-21T07:34:00.000-07:00

House of Alex is ready and open for business.

Dear Anne and her sons (aged seven and twenty-one months) have been between my house and my mother-in-law's house since her Ocean Springs home was washed away along the Mississippi coast when Katrina hit. Her husband is an ER doctor and has remained in Ocean Springs.

The mother-in-law and her husband live in a huge mansion on Galveston Bay between Houston and Galveston.

My sister and her family of three also live between Galveston and Houston.

They are all en route, west bound on I-10.

They are now all evacuees.

According to my calculations, House of Alex will be temporary home to twelve humans, five dogs, an inside cat, and an outside cat.

I have a father-in-law and his wife who live in Houston. I just got off the phone with step-mother-in-law and let them know that, if need be, we will certainly make room for them and her elderly mother.

My mother-in-law and my father-in-law have been divorced for about twenty-five years. THAT would certainly make things interesting.

Unless Rita takes a serious turn to the north and hits Lake Charles, Louisiana, my mother is safe where she is.

The husband has advised he still plans to leave on Friday for yet another hunting trip.

Note to husband: Feel free to go; however, if you abandon me under these circumstances, don't bother to return.

In addition to this being close-out time/fiscal year-end, the number one thing on my list of things to do today is stop by and buy-out the grocery store on my way home.

I guess we'll see just how damned organized I really am.

Stay safe, everyone, stay safe.

Mercy

2005-09-20T17:15:00.000-07:00

Trespassers will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
~Sisters of Mercy

Drama Queen in the making

2005-09-20T11:37:00.000-07:00

Wee child lamented having to go to day school this morning.

When I asked her why, she explained there was "just so much to do" and it was hard for her "to just keep going all day long."

I did not quite understand what the problem was because I have a copy of her daily schedule and know quite well there are an adequate number of snack breaks, quiet/book/story time, and nap time throughout the day. I could not imagine the teachers were pushing these four-year-olds that hard.

I asked her to specifically tell me what the problem was.

"Mommy, YOU don't understand. EVERYONE wants to play with me. It's VERY tiring."

Oh, Lord.

I cannot relate to this one. I was the child who kept to herself until I got out of college.

I am simply ill-equipped to deal with this kind of drama.

Next thing I know she'll want to be a freakin' cheerleader.

Then, I'll have to slit my wrists.

More than meets the eye

2005-09-19T20:34:00.000-07:00

There is no doubt I enjoy the written word.

I love to write, as well as read; however, I have a number of other interests I endeavor to pursue with the same zeal and passion that I have embraced blogging.

My mother first introduced me to needle and thread when I was probably six or seven. Back then she made beautiful embroidery with silk thread on fine silk garments. Her work was exquisite, but extremely expensive for a family of four with a stay-at-home mother.

Cross-stitch was just beginning to be popular and she was eager to learn something new. I showed both immediate interest and aptitude and a life long love affair was born.

From cross-stitch I taught myself to needlepoint which led to an interest and appreciation for books on needlepoint, particularly Berlin work.

Over the years, I have amassed quite a collection of needlepoint books, including a few rare ones of real value. My favorite modern book is Berlin Work by Raffaella Serena.

For me, stitching gives me a much needed opportunity to rest my mind, as well as my body. Unless I am in front of a computer, I rarely sit down. When I do sit, I am not one to do so quietly or passively. I do not watch movies or television, even LSU football without something in my hands. Thus, stitching is one of the few ways I work to maintain what little is left of my sanity.

The following is a piece of needlepoint I designed and worked myself on canvas with wool:

Lately, I have been a bit more into cross-stitch than needlepoint, probably because of the heat and working with wool in the summer, even with air conditioning, is not the most comfortable for me.

Here is the piece I started several weeks ago and just finished the other day. It is a design by Mirabilia's Nora Corbett. The expression and coloring of the cherubic imp reminds me quite a bit of my own Wee One. Once matted and properly framed, this piece will grace her room. It is worked on 32-count linen with cotton floss, specialty threads, and glass beads.

This last picture is of a design which hangs above my bed. She's called Sleeping Beauty and is another Mirabilia design. This one is also worked on 32-count linen with floss, speciality threads, and thousands of glass beads.

For a bit of perspective, the design area is 15 x 16 1/4 inches. If the entire area were covered, that would mean a combination of 62,400 stitches and little glass beads. Just guessing, I would say the design covers at least two-thirds of the design area.

These are truly a labor of love. For those fortunate enough to receive one of these gifts from me, rest assured, you are truly special to me.

So right

2005-09-19T15:59:00.000-07:00

Wee child was in the car with me this morning.

She often likes to read the numbers on the clock from the back-seat. While she can identify the numbers one through fifteen or sixteen, she does not have a grasp on twenties, thirties, etc.

Wee One: "Mommy, the numbers read eight-free-free."

Me: "Now it looks like eight-three-four."

Wee One: "Man, why do they have to change every minute?"

Exactly!

Nuts enough to invest?

2005-09-19T15:09:00.000-07:00

Shoe may well have something cogent to say on this matter:

Psychopaths could be best financial traders?

(No offense intended, girlfriend)

High Strung

2005-09-19T07:12:00.000-07:00

For the past several months I have had some ongoing health issues. Of late, I have required frequent doctor appointments.

For a number of reasons, including a natural aversion to waiting rooms and, otherwise, being forced to cool my heels unnecessarily, I opt for the first appointment of the day. Thus, I have standing 8:00 a.m. appointments every couple of weeks or so.

[On an aside, I was one of those people in college who also volunteered for 7:30 a.m. classes (even Western Civ) just to get them over with to have my afternoons free for me.]

This morning the Wee Child announced she would like to accompany me.

Because she will not turn five until December or begin Kindergarten until next year, I know the days where she can run around on errands and hang out with me at home on a weekday are numbered.

My baby is growing up and while I cannot stop time, I do try to take advantage of those moments she actually wants to spend with me.

Despite the best laid plans, Murphy conspired against me this morning in the form of a train. The 7:30 iron horse did not arrive until 7:40 which waylayed my arrival at the doctor's office to 8:03.

I hate being late.

I mean, I really hate being late.

Fortunately, doc was behind me and also had to wait on the train.

At 8:10 kind nurse took my blood pressure and it was 20 systolic and 10 diastolic points higher than the last time. When doc came in he looked at that and mumbled something about needing to keep an eye on it.

I explained I was agitated about being late and told him it would be fine.

He smiled and let it go, but asked me if I were eating well, etc.

Before I could respond, the wee child piped up and stated: "Mommy and me (sic) had cake for breakfast, just this morning."

That statement found good old doc looking at me with raised eyebrows.

Rather than make the argument formulating in my head: We were running late and some food, even cake, is better than no food, I merely said: "You want to give me grief about that, then check my blood pressure again?"

He laughed, shook his head, then said: "No, we'll see what happens next time."

So, I'm a little high strung.

What can I say?

That Girl

2005-09-17T21:27:00.000-07:00

I know her well, as perhaps, do most of you.

She is the woman who frequents your dreams, the wife who shares your bed, the mother of your children's classmates, the next-door neighbor or merely the woman from whom you buy your groceries.

She is more than one, but does not encompass all.

To some; however, she is everything.

To the untrained eye she is happy and gay and fills the hearts of those who surround her with warmth and tenderness, ever seeking to please the needs of those who tell her they love her.

As a mother, she is nurturing and kind, even a bit overprotective of her progeny, as well as everyone else's.

As a wife, she is dutiful and affectionate, if not occasionally withdrawn and quiet.

In odd moments of reflection or distraction her thoughts wander to that other place, the place where her heart lingers and wonders what if.

In those instances of unvarnished repose the many masks she wears and the robes of convention are shed and a glimpse into the woman she actually is is revealed, if only for that brief snatch of time.

To the man who owns her heart, he may choose to reach out to her and draw her near or he may only decide to watch from the distance, if he cares to watch at all.

For her, the price for each moment spent in that repose is another splinter cast from her heart and despite the outward smiles, she is just one step closer to her abyss.

Not all is as it appears.

OT

2005-09-17T08:54:00.000-07:00

One week from today and that's it. The fiscal year will come to an end and the relentless push for more and more will be done, at least for a couple of months.

The dead period around here is from October to the first of the year. It is a shame really. If we all weren't so spent during that three month period we would not start the new fiscal year already behind the eight ball after the initial quarter. It seems we are always playing catch up after that point. This year will be no different.

Ever-increasing "production" goals, fewer people to carry the load, and even fewer competent individuals all around does not make for a cohesive and positive work-force morale.

As with everyone else, I am not getting any younger. I have maxed out the career ladder, short of entering management, something I have absolutely no desire to do.

While I am paid well for my efforts and have a great deal of flexibility to my schedule, the work is brain-numbingly boring and it has become ever increasingly more difficult to focus on the tasks at hand, as well as find the motivation to complete those tasks.

Do I stay and coast for the next thirty years or do I go and find something else to do while I'm still "young" enough at thirty-eight to be viable in another career?

What to do? What to do?

It's not like the rest of my life is static either.

I do believe life altering decisions were much easier when I was younger and not completely aware of all my responsibilities.

Back to the salt mines...

Rolling

2005-09-16T20:02:00.000-07:00

I have been remiss.

There are so many wonderful bloggers out there, many of whom I have actually met, and all of whom I have the pleasure and privilege of calling friend.

For recent weeks I have been in a self-imposed kind of isolation and exile and a few of you have been so gracious and kind to visit with me to keep my spirits up. To each of you, I am grateful.

September 30th will mark the one year anniversary of my life as a blogger, albeit, I started at that other place.

So, up goes the blogroll for two reasons: 1) my friends deserve to be acknowledged and 2) it makes surfing a helluva lot easier for me.

Experimentation

2005-09-15T19:08:00.000-07:00

Now here's a thought.

Just a thought, though.

Linen after Labor Day

2005-09-15T10:40:00.000-07:00

While not a clothes horse, I am a natural girl in the textile sense. I prefer linen, silk, cotton, and wool. Egyptian cotton is required for my sheets and one of the greatest luxuries I can imagine is having fresh sheets on my bed daily. I do not do blends well, unless, of course, it is along the lines of silk and angora. Polyester, not even in death.

I like things not only to fit, but to feel good next to my skin. It is one of the few sensual pleasures in which I truly indulge with regularity. When purchasing clothes, I make few additions, but what I do buy must pass the criteria of quality (last more than one season), fit (at least the size I am at the moment or hope to become in the very near future), feel (already covered), and look (do I resemble a walrus in this?).

It is not necessary for me to represent the latest trend or fashion design from Paris, Milan, or anywhere else. That's not my bag, so to speak.

Thus, I tend to wear what I like and feel comfortable in rather than what nameless and faceless others dictate as hard and fast fashion rules. My style has only one mistress and Comfort is her name.

Now, I do acknowledge, at least in the peripheral sense, the fashionistas got together at some point and deemed certain things were verboten after certain times of the year. As we should all well know by now, light colors are for spring and summer and darker, more subdued colors are for fall and winter. Likewise, linen is typically a summer fabric and frowned upon when worn after Labor Day, along with those damned white shoes. (Who the hell over the age of five wears white shoes, anyway?)

Well, it is still damn hot where I am and linen is one of my favorite fabrics for living with heat and humidity. Besides, I wear linen whenever I damn well please.

Apparently, the Fashion Gods frowned upon me today and I must bear their wrath.

A colleague invited me to lunch. We dined at a very nice Asian restaurant. This colleague preferred one of the windowed booths to any number of tables scattered throughout the dining establishment. All was well until I leaned forward to scoot down the booth because the front of linen blouse caught the corner of the table and released three of the four buttons holding the front of my top together.

Only twisted fate would dictate the last button remaining would be the bottom one and not the top.

All I can say is I am damned grateful I likewise invest and indulge in attractive undergarments. As my colleague will attest, there was very little left to the imagination.

My ensemble now sports a lovely piece of silver-grey duct tape (courtesy of the toolbox in my colleague's truck) down the front of my linen blouse.

I feel so special.

Not.

Cheeky Bastards

2005-09-14T19:14:00.000-07:00

These carrion-eating creatures perform a much needed service in my neck of the woods, but they are surely an unsightly and foul smelling bane of my existence.

They roost on the golf course, as well as the roof of my house and nearby powerlines ever casting cold and beady eyes at my children and pets. They are protected in these parts and staring too hard their way may well elicit a fine.

They are arrogant, aggressive, and vile.

As I drove home yesterday I noted a half-dozen or so dining on road-kill coon in the middle of my lane. When the car in front of me altered his course to avoid them, all but two of the brazen bastards flew or hopped away. When I drove by, the same two refused to move.

This morning there was no sign of the raccoon; however, there were two distinct black feathered heaps surrounded by pools of grease in the middle of the road.

I wonder, are buzzards cannibals?

Lubbing the tub

2005-09-14T19:00:00.000-07:00

Voodoo loves my bathtub.

The New Scene

2005-09-14T08:47:00.000-07:00

Around 10:00 p.m. the other night Sweet One informed me we were completely out of kitty litter only after she had dumped the old litter out of the box.

Kudos to her for seeing to her chores, but I was a bit miffed she had not thought to check whether we had enough litter to refill once she dumped, the old litter that is.

Doubting whether Voodoo could go for a while without going, a trip to the Super Wal-Mart in our sleepy little town was in immediate order.

First off, I'm a Target girl. I like Target because it's clean and orderly and not swamped with all manner of humanity. I'm not a big shopper, but when I shop I do like to do so without playing bumper carts with the masses, including underage drivers. I also like to shop quietly so I have some chance of recalling exactly what I need from that rapidly diminishing mental inventory of mine.

As much as I like Target, it is only open twelve hours a day from eight in the morning to eight in the evening. Further, some things just require a trip to the Super Wally World; however, when I generally shop at The Wal-Mart, it is before seven in the morning because I simply do not like crowds. I like to do my thing, get in, get out and go about my way.

The company I keep at those times are other bleary-eyed mothers who have been up for hours waiting for their respective day care centers or schools to open so they can pawn their children off on others for a while and spend a little quality time with a kidless cart and no one pulling at them screaming: "Mommy! Mommy! Moooommmmy!" THIS I understand.

At that hour conversation and eye contact with others similarly situated are avoided, even if we recognize the next-door neighbor. No one speaks to one another. It is, dare I say it, an unspoken rule. Chats are left for shopping excursions performed at other times of the day. Early mornings are sacred.

Back to the other night, there were others in the house and I could safely abandon my sleepy charges and made a dash to Super Wal-Mart for kitty litter and a few other things. Much like the early morning shopping excursions, there were few people milling about; however, it was oddly different. The tone of the store, while brightly lit, was more subdued.

I did not notice it immediately, but instead of the early morning women walking zombie-like up and down the aisles, there were men everywhere. Furthermore, each one appeared to be in dire need of some form of assistance.

The initial stop was to obtain kitty litter. As I hefted not one, but two containers of litter into my cart this okay looking late forty-ish, early fifty-ish man approached and held the cart still as I loaded it. While I would have much preferred for him to load it for me, I guess he thought he was being helpful. I gave him a half-smile with a quick "Thanks" and started to push the cart around him. Before I could escape, he put a hand on my cart, smiled back, and asked: "So, do you have a cat?"

My mother would be appalled, but there are times when I find it very difficult to be nice to people. This was one of those times. Tired and irritated at having to be at Wal-Mart late at night and having to respond to asinine questions, I said: "No, I have two pot-bellied pigs that have learned to use cat litter. I love my pigs, they sleep with me every night."

Stunned for a reply, I was sure, he released my cart and off I went.

During my search for Barbie bubble bath, a particularly unattractive (appearing and smelling) man probably in his early to mid-fifties stepped up to me.

Second Guy: "Excuse me, miss, can you tell me where to find the soap?"

My mind screamed: "If anybody needs it, buddy..." but my voice said: "Ummmm, it appears to be right behind you."

Second Guy: "Oh, thanks. So, are you from around here?"

Me: "Actually no, I'm passing through on my way to Hell. Enjoy your evening."

A few minutes later I ran through the cards because I remembered a birthday coming up when I was greeted by this Anglo gentleman who looked well over sixty and graced me with a gap-toothed grin: "Hi, can you help me, please? I'd like to find a gift for my mother."

Me: "Perdoneme, por favor. No hablo ingles."

I would like to think they were asking me all these questions because I appear to be and comport myself as someone in the know; however, I suspect it had more to do with being one of the only women in the store. Period.

As I was checking out, I spoke to the very friendly female clerk and asked her about all the men lurking the store. She said: "Oh, honey, this is a week night, you should see them on Friday and Saturday nights. It's not safe around here, let me tell ya."

So, there it is, ladies. THE place to be to pick up guys (or be picked up) is your friendly neighborhood Wal-Mart after 10:00 p.m. Unfortunately, there did not appear to be any within ten years (older or younger) of my age group.

And, NO, I am not that desperate, thank you.

A new life, please

2005-09-13T08:48:00.000-07:00

Check in, check out.

Would that it could be so easy.

I’m done with this life, can I have another, please?

However, I'm not ready to chuck the whole thing, merely bits and pieces. There's much I would like to keep.

If only, if only things actually worked that way.

Yesterday is just a memory
Tomorrow's never what it's suppose to be
And I need you, yeah.
~Bob Dylan

Sounds Good to Me

2005-09-13T05:48:00.000-07:00

Wee One awoke this morning and ambled over first thing.

Me: "Good Morning Sunshine! What would you like for breakfast?"

Wee One: "Bacon."

Now that would be MY child.

Full House

2005-09-12T09:53:00.000-07:00

There is something oddly satisfying in having a house full of people, particularly when the majority of those present are little people between the ages of seven months and twelve. My dear Anne and her two young sons Ro and Q, aged twenty-one months and seven months, are in our midst.

Sweet One and Wee One have been wonderful little babysitters and playmates to our small guests. The mothering instinct is great in both of them. I am so delighted to see they are both willing to think beyond themselves and seek to offer comfort and affection to other children, particularly young ones.

I have always hoped to be blessed with another baby, perhaps, a little boy.

Sweet One was seven when we learned Wee One was on the way. I worried and fretted whether we could be so fortunate to have more than one perfect and healthy baby, as well as whether I had enough love in my heart for more than one child. At the time, I could not imagine loving another living being as much as I did my Sweet One.

While healthy children are one of the greatest blessings, I realize now how silly I was to have worried at all about not having enough love in me for a second child.

I have also often wondered whether it is possible to love the child of another the same or as much as we love those of our very own. I do not doubt any longer that it is entirely possible.

Feeding the babies, changing them, bathing them, and just holding them, my heart has swelled with love for them, their innocence, their chubby little hands and feet, and their beautiful smiles. However long they stay, when they leave, they will certainly take a piece of me and my heart with them.

Oh, how I would love to have another little one in my house to stay.

Vocabulary

2005-09-11T08:10:00.000-07:00

Sweet child to wee child: "Go away. Didn't I already smite you last week?"

Wee child: "No. Mommy is the only one who can smite."

Can you feel the love?

Maybe I need a new image...

2005-09-10T22:04:00.000-07:00

Good Grief!

What is it about me that screams: "FOOD"?!

After a hard day's work, I walk into my house and am greeted by the four-year-old: "Hi, Momma. Can I have a brownie?"

Meanwhile, the twelve-year-old inquires: "Hi, Mom. What's for dinner?"

When I arrive at the office in the morning, one of my colleagues greets me: "Good Morning. What did you fix for dinner last night?"

Before I can get to my office another co-worker asks: "Pete's birthday is next week. What kind of cake are you baking?"

The cell phone rings: "Hey girl, I'm cooking for new boyfriend on Saturday night, I need a menu."

Geez.

I guess that's enough for now. I'm hungry...

Body Surfing

2005-09-10T14:38:00.000-07:00

There's waxing and there's waxing.

Years ago someone imparted one of Heloise's Helpful Hints to me on keeping a bath and shower virtually scrub-free. I was told to use car wax on tubs and showers and it works like a dream; however, every year or so, a new application is required.

The other day I broke out a little sweat and elbow grease and gooped up, then hand buffed my beloved clawfoot tub; however, for my own continued health, safety, and well-being, I omitted applying the wax to the bottom of the tub. There are some things that even I do not need to be told.

For those who are familar with me and my alter ego, I do not bathe alone.

There is usually at least one set of other eyes any time I am in or near the bathroom.

Last night I drew a particularly hot and full bubble bath. I thought I was finally without company because faithful cat was nowhere to be seen.

On those very rare occasions I actually make it into a bath without him, he runs from wherever he is through the house, leaping over furniture to get to me.

He particularly loves the bubbles.

This was one of those occasions.

It was only after I was partially submerged in the exquisite warmth and aroma of the tub did I hear Voodoo tearing through the bedroom making a beeline for me. His momentum was so great he burst through the partially closed door and with a single bound leapt onto the side of the bathtub.

Usually, he is adept at maintaining both hold and balance while perched there; however, I had just finished waxing the tub.

In one motion he jumped onto the edge of the tub and immediately slid right into the bath with me.

That was one cat who did not land on his feet; however, in a flash, his sopping wet body hurled itself up and out of the tub and in a whirl of bubbles Voodoo was gone.

I wonder if I will actually be bathing alone tonight.

A Glimmer of Sanity Returns

2005-09-10T09:50:00.000-07:00

The other day, I posted about losing my mind.

Today, I am most pleased to report that I have found the wayward photos and the cordless phone is no longer absent.

More importantly, there appears to be very valid reasons why I could not recall where they were placed.

As to the pictures, I went through a cleaning spree a while ago and made three piles of the paper on the counter: things to be tossed, those pictures, and things belonging to others. I instructed the sweet child to "take care of" one of those piles (things belonging to others, primarily her), took care of the trash myself and intended to return for the pictures. Responsible child she is, Sweet One took care of the pictures and the pile of things belonging to others. In looking for something else, I found where she had placed them. Oh, happy day!

With respect to the cordless phone, I had a few minutes yesterday before I had to leave for a doctor's appointment. A few days ago the wee child had spilled or splattered milk on the black leather seats of my car. Just inside the garage door stands a book shelf with containers of automobile maintence crap, including Armor All wipes and leather cleaner wipes.

Never one to allow grass grow between my toes, I availed myself of those few spare minutes to grab a leather cleaning wipe to dispatch the dried milk. While standing before the shelves I happened to look up and at eye-level was the missing phone.

There's no doubt in my mind what happened: Sweet One was on the phone while walking her dog and finished her conversation before the dog was finished with his business. Heaven forbid the twelve-year-old hang on to the phone when she was not actually using it. That would certainly be expecting too much.

The overwhelming relief that I had not completely lost my mind overrode any and all irritation at the child. That and she was still at school when I found it and I had plenty of time to get over it before she returned home.

Now, all that remains is the great panty hunt (that doesn't quite sound right, does it?).

Any Ideas?

2005-09-09T10:27:00.000-07:00

Name the movie.

You know what's wrong with you, Miss whoever-you-are?

You're chicken. You've got no guts. You're afraid to stick out your chin and say, 'Okay. Life's a fact. People do fall in love. People do belong to each other.' Because that's the only chance anybody's got for real happiness.

You call yourself a free spirit, a wild thing, and you're terrified somebody's gonna stick you in a cage. Well, Baby, you're already in that cage -- you built it yourself. And it's not bounded on the west by Tulip, Texas or on the east by Somaliland.

It's wherever you go.

Because no matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself.

Mind over matters...

2005-09-08T12:29:00.000-07:00

There was a time when I was actually the mistress of my domain and could rely on my mental acuity alone to maintain a running inventory of foodstuffs, cleaning supplies, and essential bits of clothing, not only for myself, but for each member of the household.

Times have certainly changed and I am unsure whether it is a function of advanced age (thirty-eight is old) or the continuing pressures of life's demands, but my brain has begun to short-circuit and the once clear and sharp mental pictures of where things were are hazy at best and increasingly blank.

Case in point: a month ago I took some great shots of the girls that I wanted to share with family and friends. I uploaded the images to Snapfish to order multiple prints of each shot. From the time I ordered the prints until they arrived in the mail, the four year old had pictures taken at day school. Instead of immediately mailing the pictures out when they arrived, I secured one set for me in the photo album and decided to hang onto the rest until the "school" pictures came in, a "kill two birds" kind of thing.

Well, the school pictures have arrived (and, yes, they are delightful!), but I will be damned if I cannot find what the hell I did with all those prints that I ordered. If there were not a set of them in the photo album, I would swear I did not order them to begin with.

Seriously, this kind of thing drives me completely insane. I have zero tolerance for it and it puts me in an absolute twist.

Add to the mix, one of the two new cordless phones I just bought is absent from its cradle. Apparently, it has been absent for a while because the battery in it has died and we are unable to activate the "homing" alarm which is "supposed" to alert us to its whereabouts. I have no clue where the damn thing is.

Last night, the wee child prepared for her bath by selecting the appropriate sleepwear for the night.

This is a big deal to her. There are nightgowns, pajamas, and short sets to choose from and it makes her happy to be able to ruminate and reflect on just the right ensemble each evening. I like to think on occasion I actually choose my battles and this is not one where there will be any winners, so I learned long ago to let her have her way and not to rush her.

In any event, she picked out a pajama set then announced she had no clean panties to wear.

Not possible.

Simply not possible.

When I buy panties, I buy freakin' panties and before school started, I bought panties for both girls, copious panties for both girls.

In addition, my washing machine seldom has a day of rest. There was no way that child had no clean underwear.

So, I sounded the alarm and had both girls join me in the search for a four-year-old's panties.

Total number recovered from a house-wide search, including the hamper and the ones on her little body: three.

Less than a month ago I bought no less than a dozen new pairs, not to mention the ones she already owned prior to the shopping excursion.

The wee child and twelve-year-old both remember her picking out which panty packages she wanted: Sponge Bob (don't ask), Princess Barbie, Strawberry Shortcake, and Hello Kitty. I remember buying the damn things. What I do not specifically recall is opening the packages and washing them, but something tells me I've seen Sponge Bob in the wash on more than one occasion in recent weeks.

Could it be someone is nicking my wee child's knickers??

Or have I just completely lost my mind?

Dreams

2005-09-07T09:05:00.000-07:00

I know not whether the stress of life has gotten to me more so lately than it has in the past, but my dreams have become quite disturbing. Of late, they are dark, almost menacing, and leave me with a sense of doom and foreboding.

Last week they were filled with images of the devastation from the hurricane, including the torment and suffering of those left behind. Listening, watching, and reading what so many are having to endure renders my miseries almost insignificant in comparison.

Last night was one of fractured sleep for me as bleak visions continued to crowd my head with an intoxicating intensity that had me questioning my sanity.

Sometime around 2:00 a.m. I finally got up for a glass of water and purposefully checked on the girls to exorcise these demons and remind myself of my reality.

The house was quiet and dimly lit by the moonlight and glow of a few stars shining through the multitude of windows throughout. There was no need for proper lights.

The wee child was sprawled across her bed with a wayward foot sticking out from beneath her covers and an angelic smile spread across her sleeping face. The sweet child was tightly cocooned in her bed beneath an always moving ceiling fan. Her dog rested at the foot of her bed.

My only conscious companion as I wandered through the resting house was my faithful Voodoo, the cat. To herd me and bend me to his will he usually runs ahead to lead the way and when I stray from the obligatory path, he dashes behind to swat at my heels to right my course. Should I stop for more than a moment, he rubs against my feet and calls for me to pick him up.

There is great comfort in the warmth and affection of another living, breathing creature.

After I returned to bed, I closed my eyes and willed myself to focus on a small bright spot on the not too distant horizon. In October, best friend Susan and I will travel to Tuscany. As I drifted back to sleep, I thought of the adventures in store for us.

When I next awoke my heart was lighter and I briefly replayed a very pleasant fiction which had graced my unconscious.

Susan and I were in Florence doing all the things tourists do. We visited museums, enjoyed gelatos, and took countless photographs of the people, buildings, and countryside. We had somewhere we needed to be and somehow time had escaped us. Frantic to attend our appointment we knew we could not rely on public transportation to get to where we needed to be.

As Susan searched for a taxi, I approached a couple of Italian men on motorcycles. In my very best broken Spanish, I asked them to take my friend and me where we needed to go. I offered to pay them, but one of the gentlemen tried to explain to me in Italian he would not take payment, but would ferry us for what I thought he said was a kiss.

Taken aback, I explained to Susan what the gentlemen required. She was insistent that we take the deal and assured me it was only a kiss, but not to give it to him until he were at our destination.

As each of us mounted a motorcycle and hung on for dear life, I began to replay the discussion in my head from English to Spanish and Italian to Spanish to English and had the certain feeling my ability to translate and communicate had failed me; however, moments later we arrived at our destination safe and sound.

Standing again of firm ground the gentleman began to approach me. Susan squeezed my arm and whispered in my ear it would be fine, just give the man a kiss and all would be well.

I turned to her and tried to explain that I was not certain it was a kiss from me the man really wanted. Before I could explain further, he scooped my friend into his arms and planted a big one on her shocked lips.

Releasing her, he smiled at us both, and departed.

***

I think I need to work on my Spanish, as well as my Italian quite a bit more.

Young Men

2005-09-06T11:41:00.000-07:00

Born in 1931 my father graduated from high school at sixteen. He was accepted to Port Arthur Men's College which has since been renamed Lamar State College in Port Arthur, Texas.

From an early age, he developed an interest in radios and electricity. At Lamar he took classes while also teaching electronics and working for a local television station.

I believe around that time he married his high school sweetheart and she became wife number one. Miss Betty was a beautiful woman in her youth. She is the mother of both of my half-siblings. I know her well and she has aged gracefully. She still remains a beautiful woman.

However, their marriage was troubled and after a few short years, they divorced and he enlisted in the Army and began the first of many years overseas.

Despite being an enlisted man, my father applied to and was accepted into OCS - Officer Candidate School. As a young Lieutenant, he was stationed in Germany at one time. On one cold winter's day he was tasked with greeting a new group of recruits at the train station and furthering the brief indoctrination they had already received at basic training.

As my father told the story, it was incumbent upon him to instill the fear, not only of God, but of the Army in these young men as soon as they arrived. He knew they would be tired from their trip, anxious about being in a foreign land, and homesick for the life they once knew. He also knew they would find no mollycoddling at the base and it was best for them to learn to stifle those emotions to be the best soldiers they could be.

Once the train of recruits arrived, they were lined up at attention along the depot platform and my father greeted them with the harsh reality of their present situation. It was freezing cold, it was only going to get colder, and all activities were carried on irrespective of the cold. Each man better damn well get used to it.

In short, my father was asserting his authority over this group of men. As he explained to me, first impressions were absolutely the most important.

So, the reading of the riot act continued with my father pacing back and forth in front of these men. When he was finished the rant, he asked the obligatory: "Do you understand?" and waited for the resounding: "Sir, yes, Sir!"

And, he got it.

However, at the first moment of silence thereafter, one of the recruits broke ranks, ran up to my father, and hugged him tightly as he asked: "Junior, is that you?"

My grandfather was a Senior and my father was named for my grandfather. Thus, my father was a Junior and family members called him that, rather than his first name.

Private Bailey was a distant and much younger cousin. Basic training had been the first time he had been outside of the State of Louisiana. My father was the first person he recognized from home since joining the Army.

In ten seconds Private Bailey managed to completely undermine my father's authority and rendered his hellfire speech impotent.

My father only spent four years in the service. He was recruited by other federal agencies for his technical expertise and ease with languages. In all, he probably spent twenty-seven years in foreign lands before returning to Louisiana to live out the remainder of his days.

Mr. Bailey and his wife were frequent visitors to my parents' home for much of my life. When my father's health began to decline, Mr. Bailey was there to help my mother take him to doctor's appointments and support her with things that needed to be done.

He was there the day before my father died, as well as the day he actually died. Since then, Mr. Bailey has continued to go by and check on my mother and bring her cane syrup from his farm and fresh vegetables from his garden.

At my father's funeral, I asked Mr. Bailey about that story. In addition to confirming the events as they took place, he told me he was never so happy to see a person in his entire life as he was to see my father at that train station in Germany. He said as soon as he saw my father, he knew everything was going to be all right. He was right.

Escape Mode

2005-09-05T09:10:00.000-07:00

or something very nearly like it.

Older daughter and I spent four and one-half hours yesterday afternoon watching the last ten Noir anime episodes.

If that did not already constitute about three months of television for me, when best friend Susan arrived yesterday evening, we broke the seals on The Lord of the Rings Triology.

I admit, I'm way late to that particular party. I remember reading Tolkien in high school and marveled at his seemingly endless descriptive sentences. I also recall an older Tolkien enthusiast explaining to me back then these books were written when reading was a major form of entertainment and not an idle endeavor.

Several times I have tried to encourage my sweet daughter to read these books. An avid and voracious reader, she has devoured the Harry Potter series, The Chronicles of Narnia (which is coming to theaters this fall!!), Heinlein's Door into Summer, and Paolini's Eragon/Inheritence set; however, she has steadfastly refused to even give Tolkien a chance, at least in written form.

Last night we watched the first two movies straight through. That was about six hours of movies, after more than four hours of Noir.

In the early hours of morning I lobbied to finish the last one, but both dear friend Susan and older daughter crapped out on me.

At the moment, I have two four year olds running amuck in my house as the wee child has a play date. On an aside, I just heard my baby tell her little friend: "If you help me keep my room clean, you can come back."

Susan and older daughter are hitting balls at the tennis court.

After lunch, the final part of the trilogy awaits us.

Maybe, just maybe, I'll return to reality tomorrow.

Anime

2005-09-04T12:04:00.000-07:00

A couple of years ago we came upon the world of Japanese anime with Miyazaki's Spirited Away. The artwork is amazing in this film and the storyline of the spiritworld has captivated my children, their little friends, and me.

This led to the further discoveries of Nausicaa and Kiki's Delivery Service.

About four months ago Anime on Demand, a service provided by our local cable company, began weekly episodes of a series titled Noir.

Noir
This one is really not for small children because the story line involves a young woman and a young girl who are professional assasins who team up to "travel around the world, being hired to kill and hoping to find the answers they seek." Additional story information is here.

The older daughter and I are hooked on this series. It's the first thing in years that I have looked forward to watching with any regularity.

Last night the girls and I went to dinner and a movie (Valiant), then hit our local video store. Older daughter found the DVDs for all 26 episodes of this series. Fortunately, the ones available began with number 16 and this week's episode was number 15.

The rest of this holiday weekend will be spent enjoying Noir.

Have a great holiday weekend everyone!

What do you believe?

2005-09-03T08:23:00.000-07:00

Do you believe when all is said and done in this life, there is nothing after?

Do you believe in God? or do you think the concept of faith is a construct of the inner mind of man that has perpetuated over time to explain what we as idealists see: a world as it should be?

Further, have we created these concepts of morality, justice/injustice, and right/wrong as a means to regulate and govern not only ourselves, but our fellow man?

Sleep

2005-09-03T07:37:00.000-07:00

One of those things that I always viewed as overrated was sleep.

While I usually find it difficult to quiet my mind enough to let go of my consciousness and drift away, once asleep, I tend to remain asleep.

On rare occasions stress has invaded my slumber with dreams of law school finals (years after graduation) or dreams of brief deadlines or court appearances that were non-existent in the light of day.

This week the images of the storm and the aftermath of suffering and death have consumed most of my hours, both day and night.

The panoply of loss and destruction has been so completely overwhelming.

I have no idea what so many, many people are actually having to endure.

My thoughts and prayers are with them as they live this nightmare of Katrina.

Legacies

2005-09-01T18:40:00.000-07:00

My father was born in rural Louisiana on August 1, 1931. He was the first of four children to be born to his young parents. His father was a carpenter and his mother was a housewife.

His early life was shaped by the lean times of the depression. While not prosperous by any means with store bought goods few and far between, his family never starved because they had a willingness to work and a few acres of land which included a pond, a couple of cows, and a handful of chickens.

My grandfather was a hard man and his marriage to my grandmother was not a happy one. I do not claim to know the particulars of their circumstances, but have heard from multiple sources over the years my grandmother was a faithless wife and on more than one occasion was dragged back from one dalliance or another and beaten back into submission.

Not by way of any excuse for his behavior, but different people have revealed my grandfather dearly loved my grandmother and his actions were the result of jealousy. I have heard the stories of him as a younger man falling in love with her the instant he first saw her and making great effort, before and after they married, to seek her favor and garner her approval and being met with nothing but scorn and ridicule from her.

My grandmother has only been gone for a little over a year. She was a hard worker and always very active; however, hers was not a gentle heart. Never a kind word from her did I ever hear spoken of anyone.

My father told me once when he was a boy he was commissioned to sort a pile of nails in my grandfather's workshop. Paw Paw had a sawmill with something of a lumber yard. Daddy was probably seven or eight at the time and was sorting the nails while sitting on a floor and reading a book. Paw Paw was furious when he saw what Daddy was doing and promptly nailed his book to the floor.

Another time Daddy thought he had broken his leg. For whatever reason, Paw Paw did not think the injury was serious and told Daddy to get up and go on to school. My grandmother quietly intervened and told Daddy to get up and make his way to a ditch along the road and hide there when it came time to leave for school. Only after my grandfather went to work, my grandmother collected Daddy and took him to town to see a doctor. That doctor set his broken leg, applied wooden splints, and loaned him a pair of crutches.

I only knew my grandfather as a small child after he had suffered more than one stroke. I remember him as a giant of a man, but a very quiet giant. He wore denim overalls and tended to his garden and his cows. I do not recall a smile ever gracing his face, but he was gentle with me and without words I found comfort in his presence. I sat on his lap often and watched him braid the twine from hay bales and roll them into balls for later use. In the afternoon, he sat on the back porch in a rocking chair and whittled until it was time to feed the cows.

Milking time was in the morning. If I was up and around before breakfast, he would nod his head slightly and I would follow him to the barn. He had a galvanized bucket for the milk and a small, three-pronged stool on which he sat. He always put the milk bucket down first before kicking the stool over to where he wanted it. Often, he picked me up to sit on the cow before he settled down to milk her. If I was not perched on the cow but crouched next to him watching his hands, he would squirt me with a brief stream of milk.

When Christmas or birthdays rolled around, he would motion for me or my sister to come to him. As we stood before him, he would reach into the pocket in the bib of his overalls and pull out a small dark brown leather coin purse. From this he would extract a quarter. Very deliberately he would take my hand and open it palm up and gently place that quarter. Then he would curl my fingers around the coin, nod, and pat me on the head before sending me on my way. For years my father had an old cigar box next to his recliner. In it was that coin purse.

In his day, my grandfather was a well-respected man. He was elected to the police jury and served with pride.

Back in my early childhood, my mother had not yet learned how to drive and it was Paw Paw who took us to Piggly Wiggly to shop for groceries and Ben Franklin's for other goods. He would even take my mother to the beauty shop once a week to have her hair done.

At each store, he would sit outside on a bench with newspaper folded in hand. I do not believe I ever saw him read a paper. He really did not have the time because everyone who walked by stopped to shake his hand and exchange a few words.

I have no memory of the sound of his voice.

I believe I loved my grandfather.

As an orphan, my mother loved my grandfather and doted on him. He was very patient with her. A recent immigrant from Vietnam, she hardly spoke any English at all.

Because we lived next door, they spent hours together every day milking cows, collecting eggs and vegetables, and doing all the things that needed to be done.

My older sister was in school during the day and I spent my time traipsing behind both my mother and my grandfather.

On a hot late spring afternoon when I was five years old, I saw my mother running from the barn screaming for my grandmother and help. My father had been out of town and was expected to return that day from a trip to Washington, D.C.

As I think back things moved at a snail's pace, almost frame by frame.

My grandfather had been tilling the ground adjacent to the barn when he collapsed. My mother was with him when he went down. As his eyes were closed, she could not get him back up or awaken him. She panicked and began running for help from the house.

My grandmother came to the back door just as my father drove up in his car.

I remember standing in the middle of the yard as my father got out of the car with a suit jacket in one hand and my mother pulling on the other. He had on dark slacks, a white shirt, and a thin black tie. It was 1973.

He listened intently to my mother's hysterics and when she finally made herself clear he was instantly in motion.

He ran to where my grandfather had fallen and immediately began CPR. I heard my grandmother yelling into a phone to the operator she knew by name to send help.

My mother crumpled to the ground in a heap of body convulsing sobs.

My next memory was standing barefoot in the dirt of what was to be the watermelon garden that year watching my father alternately pumping my grandfather's chest and trying to breathe for him.

A few feet from where they were was the tiller, still running, but on its side. Its wheeled prongs turned in vain.

I do not know how long I stood there and watched my father desperately trying to save my grandfather, but by the time an ambulance arrived my father was soaked in sweat and covered by muddy dirt. With my father still working on him, the medic checked for the vital signs of life.

There were none.

Gently at first, then more forcefully, both medics pulled at my father's arms to cease his relentless efforts. "He's gone," they told him. Then one of them stepped over to the tiller, shut it off, and righted it.

After giving my father a moment or two, they lifted my grandfather onto a gurney, strapped him in, and then began negotiating the dirt and uneven ground to the ambulance.

As they rolled him passed me, my father finally stood and woodenly followed.

Before lifting him into the back of the ambulance, a sheet was produced to cover him.

My grandmother never stepped out of the house.

The day of the funeral, it was my mother who was inconsolable. My grandmother had nothing nice to say about anyone, least of all my grandfather. My father simply had nothing to say.

From the cemetery, my grandmother took to her bed for a few days. When the visitors finally stopped calling and bringing food, she abandoned her bed and went about daily life; however, she never missed an opportunity to bad mouth my grandfather.

A couple of weeks passed and my grandmother finally decided it was time to take a trip into town. On her way, she heard a loud POP, lost all power in her vehicle, and began to smell something burning.

After she was collected from the side of the road and her car towed to a mechanic's shop, my grandmother told my father again and again what happened. Evidently, it had scared her.

Before it was towed away, I heard the mechanic tell my father it was probably a short-circuit in the electrical system; however, I specifically recall my father told my grandmother the car had been struck by lightening. He elaborated by adding: "It was Daddy telling you to be nice."

I never heard her speak ill of my grandfather after that.

They come in threes...

2005-08-30T16:21:00.000-07:00

or so I am told.

Loved ones in Ocean Springs, Mississippi, just down the road from Biloxi, discovered today their home is completely missing. They lived a couple of miles from the coast on a small bayou. All that remains is a piling or two.

They had just finished the house after three years of renovation and rebuilding.

I visited with them in February after the birth of their second son.

Fortunately, they and their small sons are well and fine. They have insurance, both vehicles, and the clothes on their backs.

May God bless them.

Secondly, my colleague and good friend, Cynthia received notice today her contract expires in 30 days and it will not be renewed. Thus, she has been given thirty days notice of the termination of her job.

This is the first time in my nine year tenure a contract has been allowed to lapse. She is an excellent and dedicated employee and in the one year and eleven months she has worked with me, she has taken exactly one vacation day.

This situation is not one of her competence, reliability or work ethic, but a pissing contest with incompetent fucks higher up.

Well, that's two.

Where the hell is the third one?

I'm all for Interesting

2005-08-29T18:19:00.000-07:00

"Sanity calms, but madness is more interesting." ~John Russell

Heatin' Some Buns

2005-08-29T14:26:00.000-07:00

Different people deal with stress in different ways. All this hurricane coverage made me nervous. When I have nervous energy, I sit still less than I normally do anyway (which isn't much to begin with).

Today my nervous energy found me with the munchies.

In my pantry I found a box of Betty Crocker's butter recipe yellow cake mix. On the back of the mix was a recipe for Honey Bun Cake. Oh, freakin' MY!

Here's the recipe with one modification, I switched the vanilla for Amaretto.

HONEY BUN CAKE:

1 pkg yellow cake mix
1/4 cup milk
2 sticks (1 cup) butter
4 eggs
8 oz. sour cream
1/3 cup packed brown sugar
1/3 cup chopped pecans
2 tsps ground cinnamon
1 cup powdered sugar
1 TBS milk
1 tsp Amaretto

Heat oven to 350 degrees. Generously grease bottom of 13 x 9 -inch pan.

Remove 1/2 cup dry cake mix, reserve.

In a large bowl, beat remaining dry cake mix, 1/4 cup mild, butter, eggs, and sour cream on medium speed for 2 minutes.

Spread half of batter in pan.

Stir together reserved dry cake mix, brown sugar, pecans, and cinnamon; then sprinkle over batter in pan. Carefully spread remaining batter evenly over pecan mixture.

Bake 40-45 minutes or until done.

Stir powdered sugar, 1 TBS mild, and Amaretto until thin enough to drizzle, stirring in additional mild, 1 tsp at a time, if necessary.

Poke top of warm cake with fork, spread over top of cake.

Sit back with a huge glass of cold milk and get fat like me.

Enjoy!

Close

2005-08-29T12:35:00.000-07:00

The city of New Orleans appears to have weathered the storm in good fashion.

There does not appear to be the widespread death and destruction predicted; however, the parishes to the south and east of New Orleans have suffered the brunt of the storm, much like the Mississippi coast around Biloxi, Ocean Springs, and Gulfport.

The southernmost inhabited place in Louisiana is called Grand Isle. There are reports that seven refused to abandon the island. They are now unaccounted for.

I have no doubt in the days to come images from these areas will reveal the extent of nature's fury. I only hope the devastation is not accompanied by body counts and flyers of the missing. I hope people heeded the warnings and evacuated for high ground.

Nature is a bitch; however, homes can be rebuilt and toys can be replaced, lives cannot.

Sobering Thoughts

2005-08-29T04:15:00.000-07:00

"I'm expecting that some people who are die-hards will die hard."

~Aaron Broussard, Jefferson Parish council President, when asked about residents in his parish which includes majar suburbs and juts all the way to the storm-vulnerable coast who elected to stay, despite the evacuation warnings.

"It all really makes you wonder what the French were doing when they built this place."

~Stevan Spencer, the Orleans Levee District's chief engineer, as he described the 129-mile system of pumps and levees, which still needs $50 million to complete, that was designed to resist a fast-moving, dry Category 3 storm -- in short, nothing like Katrina. Spencer further opined: "If the levees hold but the water spills over, the water will be almost impossible to remove, considering the pumps will be swamped and shut down."

Hurricanes and Louisiana

2005-08-28T09:47:00.001-07:00

Hurricane Katrina has my beloved home state of Louisiana and my favorite city of New Orleans in her cross-hairs.

Betsy came through and hit New Orleans on September 9, 1965.

On August 17th and 18th, 1969, the worst storm to ever hit the continental United States landed on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. Her name was Camille.

Betsy was blamed for 75 deaths in the United States, which ranks it 18th among the deadliest U.S. storms from 1900 through at least September 2003. The only storm to kill more people in the USA since 1965 was Camille, with 256 deaths in 1969.

What those statistics do not tell are the other casualties which result from storms like these.

In addition to the weather-related casualties, there are the dangers from contamination of the water supply from raw sewage and chemicals, as well as the threat of poisonous snakes.

Most everyone knows there is a good deal of low-lying wetlands in Louisiana, particularly around the coast. With a semi-tropical climate, the state is host to a variety of poisonous snakes which seek high ground in order to escape not only the rising waters, but the salt water of the storm surge.

As odd as it sounds, after each of the major hurricanes of Betsy and Camille, there were hundreds of deaths due to snakes because the freshwater snakes seek high ground, just as humans do, to escape the salt water. In contests between humans and snakes over small pieces of dry ground, the snakes win.

Surviving the storm itself is only one of the major dangers these people face.

My thoughts and prayers are with all.

Say What?!

2005-08-28T09:04:00.000-07:00

The twelve-year-old spent most of yesterday with her best friend.

After the best friend's mom brought her home last night, she told me she was watching the chick flick The Wedding Date when the girls sat down to join her. Uncertain of the rating of the movie, the mom asked my daughter if she was allowed to watch Rated R movies.

My sweet child nodded her head and told her: "Yes, ma'am, I've watched triple x with my mom."

The mom told me she was taken aback until my daughter added: "You know the one, it has Vin Diesel in it."

Oh, my!

That Time of Year

2005-08-27T13:55:00.000-07:00

August is usually a particularly ho hum kind of month.

Most everywhere I have lived the summers actually begin in April with scorching temperatures from May through September.

As far as heat and humidity, August is usually the worst.

By the eighth month, the newness of summer has long since worn off and the monotony of hot, rainless days drones on beating the body and will into mindless submission. Keeping plants and animals watered is nothing short of a Herculean task.

However, August means the children are getting ready for school. My favorite part of preparing for school is shopping the office supply store for new and fresh school supplies. I love the feel and smell of fresh notebooks. I love looking at all the new gadgets and gizmos for home, work, and school productivity. I am near faint when I inspect all the new kinds of writing instruments.

I am insane, I know, I just have this thing for new office supplies.

Then there is the glow of beginning anew at the start of a school year. There are new teachers, new classes, and, sometimes, new friends.

There is something rewarding and challenging about a clean slate.

There are few times when opportunities are without bounds.

Four-year-old Little Bit has another year before she officially starts Kindergarten, but she and I have been working in Preschool workbooks. She is on the cusp of reading. She can "read" some words, but that is more word recognition than actual reading. Her excitement and enthusiasm for learning is infectious.

There is a part of me that would very much like to return to college and obtain a degree in Architecture.

As often as I could not wait to be done with school, particularly after law school, there is a significant part of me misses the life of a student.

Just Noticed Something

2005-08-26T17:30:00.000-07:00

At my last performance review/evaluation my boss cleaned out my personnel file and returned a bunch of copies to me. Included in this batch of paperwork was the request for maternity leave when Wee One was born, as well as the application and cover letter I prepared over nine years ago to go to work for this outfit.

I was glad to see the cover letter was replete with attachments because the writing sample included a brief I was particularly proud of, but had since lost sight of.

One thing that caught my attention as I was flipping through the application package was my signature has changed dramatically. In April, 1996 I signed my name with nearly vertical, firm strokes with each letter neatly and perfectly formed and the spaces between my first name, middle initial and last name all deliberately spaced.

My current signature is legible, but only barely so. Instead of three separate parts of my name, I start with the first letter and continue until the last letter of my surname with no breaks or spaces.

Instead of nearly upright, my letters now all slant to the right. The letters are smaller, more angular and more nondescript than they once were.

Years ago a friend of mine studied graphology and for a Christmas gift took a sample of my writing and prepared a thirty-some-odd page analysis based on that sample. Her results mirrored an assessment made on me using Myers-Briggs typology.

I always wondered how much of her analysis of my handwriting was actually an analysis of what she already knew about me.

Assuming there is some stock in not only the graphology business, but also the Myers-Briggs, does the obvious changes in my handwriting equate to similar changes in personality or personaltiy type?

Who knows.

Cheap Thrills

2005-08-25T06:59:00.000-07:00

Mobile phones are great.

I love being able to reach out and chat with whomever, whenever.

I've got that part down.

As to text messaging, I admit, I am a recent texting convert and only really know how to read and reply.

As to the texting shorthand, I am slowly making my way up the bell curve and still have a lot of ground to cover.

This morning I grabbed the phone from it's charging cradle and threw it in the purse as I ushered Wee One out the door. It was not until I arrived at the office did I bother to check for any messages, voice, text or other.

Imagine my surprise when I found FOUR messages for me.

Woohoo!

I felt so important.

Most recent message read: "sweet dreams."

Penultimate message: "i'm sorry i didn't notice that you were talking to me."

Second message: "talk to you later."

First message: "i'm back."

Hmmm.

I thought I was off to a great start with the "sweet dreams," but it went downhill from that.

First of all, the messages were all from mely (melu_pr@*******.com).

I have no clue who this person is.

My response: "WRONG NUMBER."

{{sigh}}

The Zone

2005-08-23T19:24:00.000-07:00

During my second year of law school, I went out a time or two with a guy named Mark. He was cute, in an introverted, quiet and bookish kind of way, extremely intelligent, and a great conversationalist. When I got to know him a little better, I discovered he was wickedly funny and could find dark humor in almost every situation. Above all, he was a nice guy and I liked him.

On our first date we took a chartered bus, along with a bunch of other law students, to New Orleans to watch the Saints play football in the Super Dome against the Dallas Cowboys. I remember the Saints squeaked by with a last minute field goal and won 13 to 10.

Mark had had several beers during the outing and I discovered he and another guy had the unique talent of having memorized each and every jingle from every commercial ever made, even in multiple languages. As corny as it sounds, most everyone else on the bus and I found it hysterically funny to see these two guys singing all these stupid songs all the way back to Baton Rouge from New Orleans. And, yes, alcohol was involved.

The second date involved a quiet meal; however, while my memory fails to tell me where we went, I do remember we stopped by one of the favorite watering holes after dinner. It was a place called Fred’s Bar in Tiger Land, not far from Tiger Stadium. It was a Thursday night and the LSU basketball team was playing with its star player, Chris "Mr. Fifty Points a Game" Jackson who has since changed his name to Mahmoud Abdul-Rauf.

Fred's was THE place to be during any LSU sporting event. The bar featured screwdrivers with freshly squeezed oranges, as well as plenty of TVs and pool tables.

After the basketball game was over, I convinced Mark to play a game of pool with me. I have to admit, I was a late bloomer in the pool playing department and did not actually "learn" how to play until I was in law school; however, I like to think I took to it quickly.

It was then, much like it is now, my pool game is pretty much all or nothing. Either I am on and in the zone or I absolutely suck.

My only advantage at the game is I am primarily right-handed with a dominant left eye. Thus, I'm a switch-hitter. I make power shots like breaking with the right hand and finesse shots with the left. Nothing special or remarkable about it, but it has taken an opponent or two by surprise when he believes he has left me with a "bad leave" thinking I could not reach a shot with my right hand.

Mark was very good at pool and admitted he had a pool table at home growing up. As soon as we started the first game or two a couple of very drunk frat boys came over and wanted to challenge us for the table, despite the existence of at least one other open table at the other end of the bar. It appeared the table at which we were playing was the favored frat boy table.

Suffice it to say, I was not then nor have I ever been a frat boy fan, drunken or otherwise.

While Mark was content to relinquish the table and attempted to cajole me into walking the length of the bar to resume our game at the other open table. I was not. I was in the zone.

Before he had the opportunity to do anything other than shake his head, I piped up: "Okay, pretty boy, you're on. You and your girlfriend (nodding toward his buddy) gonna play teams?"

Well, that damn near incited a riot.

I had three males pissed off at me simultaneously and one of them was my date for the evening.

The challenge was accepted and as table defenders we were allowed to break. Being neither meek nor mild, but the lesser player, I bade Mark to take the first turn. Unhappily, he did so. Two stripes went in. With a bright smile, I turned to the Frat duo and announced: "It would appear you two are low balls this evening."

While the wit may have been questionable, my timing was definitely off because the words "low balls" coincided with contact between Mark's cue stick and the white ball. He missed a perfectly easy "duck" shot because of my mouth. At that point, he was even less happy with me than he had been just moments before.

The first half of the Frat duo was a bruiser who stood well over six feet three or four inches and dwarfed both Mark and me. He had huge hands that reminded me of the fella in that Kenny Rogers song: "Lucille." You know the part: "The big hands were calloused he looked like a mountain…You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille." That was the guy I had just referred to as "girlfriend."

As big guy was preparing to take his shot, I started to say something else when Mark turned to me and put his hand over my mouth. With absolute seriousness, he looked me in the eyes and with great conviction said to me what many a man has said to me in my life: "Be QUIET! Do NOT say another word. I will leave you here with THEM if you say another word. DO. YOU. UNDERSTAND?"

"Yes, but we can take them." I started to reply from beneath his hand.

Mark shook his head vigorously. "Do NOT argue, just keep quiet!"

With that he took the pool cue from me and made short work of the rest of the game.

When all was done, he won the game, but relinquished the table anyway and quickly marched me outside to take me home.

He was another one who didn't ask me out again.

Men.

Go figure.

The Past

2005-08-23T14:00:00.000-07:00

There have been a myriad of thoughts running through my mind these last several days. While I have been thinking about things I have done and things I did not do, thoughts of people I have known have been most prominent in my memories.

I know not whether others tend to remember the good before the bad, but I do. I never really relinquish the memories of bad times because I think they serve purpose: they help me appreciate what is good before me and remind me that even when I do not think I was strong, I must have strength to have endured parts of my past.

Looking back, I wonder if I had known how difficult some things would be, if I would not have given up somewhere else along the way.

Could it be ignorance is not bliss, but a ruse which allows us to endure?

Cripes

2005-08-22T13:31:00.000-07:00

Just when I think it's safe to go outside...

My twelve year old is quite the young lady. She begins seventh grade tomorrow morning and I'm so very proud of her.

She's tall (five feet, six inches) and looks every bit of nineteen.

In addition, she's responsible and mature for her age and this summer has learned very well how to run and manage a household. She has also been handsomely paid for her services.

After we picked the wee child up from day school today and stopped at the mail box, I thought it was time to teach the older daughter how to drive. On at least one occasion, I believe her father has allowed her to drive down a country road in his truck, but I have never taught anyone how to drive.

With the four-year-old secure in the back seat, I moved onto the passenger side and allowed Sweet One to get behind the wheel. She adjusted the seat, tried out the controls, and fiddled with this, that, and the other. The whole while she had an enormous smile on her face.

With brief instructions, I guided her through putting my new car in gear and eased her onto the suburban streets of our neighborhood.

She was a little rough on the stops and starts, but understood the rudiments of stopping at stop signs, looking both ways, and staying on the right hand side of the road.

Turns are something altogether different.

Jesus.H.Christ.

Who in the hell guns the engine in the middle of a ninety degree right turn?!

Fortunately, no harm was done, at least not to the car or anyone's yard.

Now, if you don't mind, I'm off to kiss the ground again and, perhaps, throw up.

One Upped

2005-08-22T08:20:00.000-07:00

Last night the wee child was taking a bath and called me in when it was time to wash her hair. Jokingly, I told her I had to potty and was going to “pee” in her bathwater.

From her supine position floating in the bottom of the tub, she sat up, gave me a sly smile, and said: “That’s okay, Mommy, sometimes when I forget to go potty before my bath, I pee in the tub, too.”

Looking at her face and the glints in her eyes, I was uncertain whether she was teasing me back.

I choose to think she was joking.

Ish.

In the Pink

2005-08-16T08:23:00.000-07:00

The four-year-old is quite the little character. She is sassy one moment, then demure and shy the next.

No matter the mood or time of day, there is always a sparkle in her eye. It is more of a flame when she is mad, a glisten when she is sad or tired, and a thousand little lights when all is good and right in her world.

Hands down, pink is her absolute most favorite color. While she is partial to fuschia, she turns her nose up at pastel, and craves everything that is that shade of Pepto-Bismol pink. (Instead of coating and soothing my stomach, that shade gives me the heaves.)

The wee child awoke, as she normally does, with a laugh and smile this morning. I heard her feet pittering and pattering through the house to my bed first thing.

Breathless, she arrived with day school calendar in hand and after a very brief "Good Morning, Mommy," shoved it in front of my still closed eyes and asked me what was scheduled at school today.

It's a good thing I am near-sighted. A one-eyed perusal of said calendar revealed "Bubble Day" in celebration of things beginning with "B".

Panic-stricken, the wee child announced: "I don't have any more bubbles. I'm all out."

A non-response from me resulted in rapid shaking of my head and shoulders by very small hands with a pleading: "Mooommmmy! What are YOU going to do?"

Finally sitting up in bed, I took the calendar from her and looked at it properly. Pointing a finger to the appropriate date, I explained it did not say we had to bring bubbles for bubble day.

Satisfied, she stated: "Well, that's a good thing, otherwise, you would have to pick up bubbles this morning."

Rubbing my eyes and dragging myself from bed, I decided to let that one slide and merely instructed her to get dressed.

After a shower, the imp returned wearing no less than four different shades of pink. Quite proud of the ensemble she was sporting, she sashayed here and there around my bathroom; however, she was very careful not to ask: "How do I look?"

As I applied the obligatory war mask for the day, I asked: "Did you brush your teeth? your hair?"

"Yes, yes, Mommy, I did all that."

"Why don't you put on a white shirt and white socks, then you will look pretty with your pink shorts and pink shoes."

"White doesn't match what I'm wearing, Mommy."

"It matches your pockets."

A rapid inspection by little hands and little eyes showed she was not seeing what I saw.

"What pockets, Mommy?"

"Your shorts are on inside out, sweetie, white pockets are hanging out on your behind."

Her face then matched the rest of her.

Sincerity

2005-08-15T07:26:00.000-07:00

A thoughtful evaluation of the people with whom I surround myself reveals they are one freaky bunch; however delightful, intelligent, and individualistic each one is.

I have often wondered how it is such a diverse group of people come together and what is the one, ever tenuous, but cohesive thread that precariously binds them all.

For each group it is different, I have no doubt.

For my group of friends and confidants I do believe that thread to be sincerity: The quality or condition of being sincere; genuineness, honesty, and freedom from duplicity.

So, what is it that connects you with your friends?

From Memory Lane to Warp Speed

2005-08-14T08:27:00.000-07:00

As a four-year-old I do not recall spending a great deal of time with inside activities.

We definitely had television, but as has been said so many, many times before, we only received three network stations, my sister and I embodied the remote control, and cartoons were left primarily for Saturday mornings. Of course, there was that thirty-minute time slot after programming resumed at 5:00 a.m. and the national anthem was played on weekdays for the brief black and white cartoons, as well.

I remember watching Bugs Bunny, Tom & Jerry, and my favorite Wile E. Coyote. I also remember Captain Kangeroo on occasion and singing the Colgate song as he turned the crank on that oversized box of toothpaste.

The only other remarkable television events from my childhood were Sunday's Wild World of Disney on ABC (Wait a minute, wasn't that Wild World of Sports and Wonderful World of Disney?? Hmmm. They do say the memory is the first to go...) and the Peanuts holiday specials.

Not a lot of television in the grand scheme of things.

Most of my time was spent running around outside following behind my mom as she tended to the critters, playing with the dogs, fishing, and doing other old time kid stuff.

It's a Sunday morning around here.

My four-year-old got up this morning and decided there was nothing on the 263 channels cable provides that she was interested in watching. She announced she wanted to do something. I suggested she get dressed and help me water the plants and set up the sprinklers for the grass.

Nothing doing, she said that sounded too much like work.

Instead she asked: "Can I get on your big computer (as opposed to the notebook)?"

While she is able to write her name and recognizes most letters of the alphabet, she can not quite read. Nonetheless, she can surf the net with the best of them due, in large part, to her older sister's assistance in setting up a bookmark folder for her favorite sites: barbie.com, pollypocket.com, nickjr.com, and poundpuppies.com.

I see it for what it is, but there's a part of me that insists: this can't be good.

Agendas

2005-08-13T09:06:00.000-07:00

It is work you know, subduing the voices inside my head.

Reason and intellect are paired to maintain an unsteady alliance to achieve relative success in the realms of comfort and security.

Competing for attention and energy is the two-headed harpy of lust and desire which courts passion's embrace in the excitement and chaos of the unknown.

Caught in the middle is the soul looking for balance and peace through something called moderation.

They are all illusions.

Comments

2005-08-12T20:48:00.000-07:00

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.

Sorry, previous blogger comments have been replaced by Haloscan. I'll try to import them when I have an chance.

UPDATE: Had a little difficulty importing the existing blogger comments. I lost a few and the content of those moved are the same. I'm a techo-retard, but I tried. (big smile)

Maximum Density

2005-08-12T19:44:00.000-07:00

There comes a time in every woman's life when she has to look in the mirror and finally decide to either accept herself for who and what she is or vow once and forevermore to make that change for the better.

I understand all those nice little sayings we exchange with one another to appease our sense of self when it comes to appearance:

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Beauty comes from within.

Beauty is only skin deep.

Yes, well, we have all heard or said those platitudes time and again.

I am no longer amused.

Neither am I the least pleased with myself or my appearance at the moment.

According to the scales this morning I am "officially" eleven pounds heavier today than I was a year ago.

That sucks.

Seriously, that really sucks.

While not quite ready to rummage through the attic in a recycling effort to pull out those garments stored behind the stroller, baby bed, and multiple containers of baby things in search of those boxes labeled "maternity clothes", as I peruse the dwindling choices of appropriate attire that actually fits, the thought has become a recurring one.

Oh, and I'm NOT pregnant, just becoming not so pleasantly plump.

Some days I actually wish I were a man.

But then again, nah, not really.

I've heard some men actually prefer women with a little meat on their bones...

Hello Life, Chaos Be Thy Name

2005-08-11T19:28:00.000-07:00

For a number of reasons, this has been a particularly stressful and emotional week. Admittedly, more than a fare share of it has been unleashed by my own hand. That is, in fact, the way it goes on occasion.

Fortunately, Thursdays are actually my Fridays. I am one of the lucky few who is able telecommute and work from home on Fridays.

So, this afternoon I abandoned the office with a big smile and much relief.

It was short lived.

Traffic was horrific (more so than usual). Moments after leaving the office I remembered that I forgot to run by the ladies' room on my way out and I was pressed for time to pick up the four-year-old from day school.

Good news, though, I did make it with just minutes to spare, but due to my tardiness, did not have time to avail myself of the facilities.

After I collected the precocious child and as we continued the drive home she asked if we could take the "long way" around.

Now, the long way home involves just a few more miles and entering the lane to the subdivision from the opposite direction.

The purpose of taking the long way home is to avail oneself of the undulating hills from ascent to descent. If one only slightly exceeds the posted speed limit by ten or more miles per hour, one can experience the momentary thrill of feeling airborne by "flying" over the top of one hill followed by the rapid approach of yet another and another.

I have to admit, it is kind of fun and from a very early age, my younger child has always referred to these events as Wahoos. Since the time she could speak, I've heard from the back seat: "Wahoo, Mommy, Wahoo?!

Seduced by the double demon of speed and Wahoo, I succumbed to my inner child and mentally checked off the list of possible problems with this proposition:

Wet roads? Nope.

School buses? Nope.

High traffic area? Nope.

Possible pedestrians? No way.

All I heard in my head was: "Houston, launch is clear. Let the countdown commence."

Then, "Five, Four, Three, Two, One...WAHOO!"

What I did not expect to see or hear was a County Mounty at the base of the second hill hit his sirens the moment we launched over one of those hills.

Crap, crap, double crap.

I pulled over and before I could completely roll my window down, Mr. Officer was stooped over and asking me: "What is the rush, ma'am?"

Before I could think of anything even remotely coherent, I heard myself babbling: "So sorry, deputy, I have to pee."

Yes, it's true. I have no shame. And, I really did have to pee.

"Excuse me, ma'am?"

"I really, really have to pee and I'm almost home. I'm quite sure you have some paperwork to do and all, but if you could follow me home, I live just a mile from here, I'd be happy to help you with that paperwork, if you just let me pee first. Please."

{{Insert pleading brown eyes and a sweet, but desperate smile.}}

Thank the good Lord, the wee child in the back seat remained quiet.

The stars were aligned and all was well in the universe for that brief moment because the benevolent and kind peace officer winked at me, stepped away from the car, and instructed me to slow it down and have a nice evening.

With a huge smile, I quickly bit back the incredulous "No, Shit?!" formulating on my lips, put the vehicle in gear, and headed home.

Hang with me folks, the story isn't over yet.

Moments after we tore into the garage, I hopped out, abandoning the four-year-old for my urgent date with the porcelain. As I flew through the garage, I noticed the cat's litter box was empty, disassembled, and laying about the garage.

I made it two steps inside the house when the significance of THAT hit me.

If the litter box was empty and laying in the garage, what the heck had the cat been using inside.

Okay, now were we up to triple crap!

I continued into the bathroom where the litter box should have been to determine whether something had been substituted for the cat. Nope. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

Well, hell. I couldn't go to the bathroom before I filled the litter box and returned it to its rightful place because any tinkling would certainly alert faithful cat to do his business.

I don't know, I call it bonding because I usually cannot enter the bathroom without faithful cat in tow. No matter what time I decide to take a bubble bath it is the exact moment he has to potty. Who knows, perhaps the smell of bubbles stimulates his bowels. All I know is that it is damned annoying.

Anyway, I really, really had to pee, but decided to forego that endeavor until after the litter box was secure.

Back out to the garage I scurried. I grabbed a liner, put it in the box, clamped down the top guard, and filled the damn thing with kitty litter.

A glance at the vehicle demonstrated the child was still in it. I tried to open her door to help her out, but she had locked the doors.

I advised her to open the doors and get out of the vehicle.

She defiantly informed me she was not going to get out.

Perilously close to rupturing my bladder and with eyes floating, I stepped up to the vehicle and peered in the tinted windows. As menacingly as I could possibly sound I advised: "Open this door NOW or when I rip it off its hinges I will hang you from the trees by your toes. DO.YOU.UNDERSTAND?!"

Click.

The door opened and a child emerged with hands covering her posterior.

Satisified with the result, I put it in high gear again, grabbed the now full litter box and ran inside.

I made it halfway through my bedroom before I tripped over one-half of a flip-flop combination, belonging to the wee child, no less, and down litter box and I went.

That stuff went everywhere. I mean EVERYWHERE.

I had kitty litter in my freakin' hair and up my farookin' nose.

Only after multiple very deep breaths did I finally make it to pee.

Older daughter, the one responsible for the absence of the litter box from its rightful place of honor, later explained she had cleaned it as instructed and left it in the garage to dry, but had forgotten all about it.

For those who are wondering: Younger daughter is alive and well. Older daughter is also well and fine. Faithful cat is very much relieved.

As for me, I've traded in the word "crap" for much more colorful language.

So, how was your day?

Personality

2005-08-10T13:09:00.000-07:00

Usually when the personality of a particular female is being discussed, it is an indication the woman in question is rather unappealing and unattractive physically. This phenomenon usually begins to occur in early adulthood.

When speaking of children, personality means, well, personality, those qualities and quirks which form one's character.

At birth I thought my older daughter was going to be a handful. Good Lord. She screamed, she cried, and she wailed the first hour of her life. She was absolutely inconsolable. I was completely miserable.

I kept asking: "Can we send her back?"

Heck, I don't know what her problem was, after all, she was one full month post term. Believe me, ten months was long enough for a pregnancy or "period of confinement", as I prefer to describe it.

Fortunately, once she reached the ripe age of one year, she was a much more agreeable human being. At twelve, she has become rather delightful, considerate, and possesses that "willingness to please" gene that agrees quite favorably with my disposition on most days.

Eight years after the arrival of the first blessing in a diaper, the long-awaited second child was born. Because the first child had to be forcibly removed with scapel via Cesarean section, the second little joy was scheduled to be induced two weeks prior to term with hopes this child would not be too big to make her way through the birth canal.

Apparently, my stomach was the place to be because second child was no more willing to greet me or the world than the first one had been. So, after a second Cesarean, my younger child was finally placed in my arms.

She was as beautiful and perfect as the first with ten fingers and toes; however, she was very different. It took half an hour or more for the drug-addled mind of mine to figure it out, but I eventually did.

Second child was quiet after she was born.

Oh, bliss, oh, ecstasy, this baby was quiet.

Things being what they are and human beings being born with innate personalities all their own, the younger child rocked along quietly content for the first six months of her life. On day one hundred and eighty-one, something obviously clicked and she decided not only did she have a personality, but a will of her little own.

From that day forth, she has gone to supreme lengths to enforce that will, even challenging the will of mine.

First child loved to be tickled and giggled and screamed with pleasure at that kind of attention.

Second child hates, hates, hates to be tickled (and I do not blame her, it drives me insane).

When the wee child was almost two she toddled into the living room where her father was watching football. He had just finished a bottle of soda. When she walked up to him, he began playfully popping her and "tickling" her with the empty bottle. She giggled for a half a second then decided she did not care for that activity.

She expressed her displeasure, but being a man with two younger sisters of his own, her torment and rage only encouraged him to continue, despite her screams of protest.

Watching intently, I intervened and snapped: "Leave her alone. I would not piss her off."

He merely laughed at me and her and continued.

The first opportunity she had to escape him she did. Only when she was out of range, did she stop, turn, and give him a hard glare. She was pissed.

As a child after my own heart, I could see the wheels turning inside that young brain. She was biding her time.

Half an hour or so later, the husband fell asleep in his leather recliner with the football game still playing on the television.

I watched from the kitchen as the wee child cautiously approached.

When she was abreast of his head, she watched his face intently to ensure he was, indeed, asleep. Satisfied she was undetected, she walked over to the side table and retrieved the empty soda bottle.

Horrified of what I thought might be her intent, I merely watched.

She walked back up to his head, checked him closely, then with one quick motion reared back and the bottom half of that soda bottle cracked upon his forehead.

In an instant, he was up and bellowing.

Not quite two, but no fool, she was in motion headed my way. Just as he moved to snatch her fleeing body, I stepped in between them.

He stopped short and with one hand on a hip and the other pointing a finger in his face, I told him: "YOU were told not to piss her off. YOU got exactly what YOU deserved. I'll take care of it from here."

My tone left no room for protest as a red and angry goose egg appeared on his forehead.

He backed off and I disciplined the child with a stern scolding. However, I was secretly pleased and proud of her ability to take care of herself.

Yeah, personality, my daughters have that in spades.

Warts and All

2005-08-09T12:44:00.000-07:00

It is easy in this relatively anonymous and somewhat ethereal space known as the blogosphere to don a mask, no matter how seemingly comfortable, to present to those we probably will never meet.

No one is one thing, ever and always.

The face with the eternal smile is nothing more than a mask. Its sole purpose is to hide those thoughts and feelings one wishes not to share or expose to the harshness of light.

We each harbor secrets of sin, lust, betrayal, and bitterness, sometimes, even love.

The question is how comfortable in our masks we truly are.

Mere acknowledgement that the mask exists is not enough, not nearly enough.

At the moment, mine only has a slight smile. The eyes are bright and hint of sadness. The faint humor in the expression belies the darkness surrounding the heart.

It is all there: the full range of human emotion in varying degrees for all to see, just behind the mask; the trepidation of revealing too much struggling with the fear of not revealing enough; the need to share, and the desire to be heard and understood.

Too much, never enough.

So, here I am, warts and all.

The Scoop on this Coop

2005-08-08T17:55:00.000-07:00

Legend has it the phoenix is a male bird with beautiful red and gold plumage.

When the end of his life is near, this fabled creature is said to build a nest of cinnamon twigs which he ignites. It is then no surprise the bird and nest go up in a fiery blaze of glory. From the ashes, a new young phoenix is suppose to emerge.

Well, that's all very nice, I suppose; however, I am no male and I'm not wildly crazy about setting myself on fire.

Hence, no phoenix here.

Just us chickens.